


on repeat

by seabear



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Emotionally Constipated Boys, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Twenty-Somethings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabear/pseuds/seabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren and Jean are angry pizza delivery boys. They fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Additional warnings** : smoking, alcohol, drunk boys making questionable decisions, language, and mild sexual content (explicit content in later chapters).

The pizza’s not good.

The pizza’s not good at all, but, like, the thing is? It doesn’t have to be. Pulito is the only fast food place that stays open until 4am in this sleepy upstate college town. That’s it. That’s all they need. Eren gets that. He understands it.

It’s been close to a month now, Jean having moved from the midday to the graveyard shift once Reiner switched his work schedule around to start taking night classes. Which _blew_ , because Reiner was one of the few people Eren could stand to be around in Trost, a town that was at least 70% college kids living there on their parents’ dime, coming into Pulito completely blasted and making haphazard attempts at flirting with him. If he had a quarter for every time some faded classical lit major asked him what classes he was taking and then scoffed when Eren said he wasn’t a student, he could feed the fucking jukebox for a month straight.

Not to say Eren doesn’t like working there. It might be a sucky job at a shitty pizzeria, but it’s his sucky job at a shitty pizzeria, and his coworkers are his friends and the town is in the middle of the mountains and he’s living with Armin and Mikasa and everything is incredibly, beautifully okay. 

Which is why Reiner and Jean trading hours sucks so epicly. Something about working ‘til close forces a weird camaraderie on them that, when Reiner got replaced with Jean, felt betrayed. Reiner’s a levelheaded guy who jams to Fleetwood Mac on the juke and likes to keep the TV tuned to the news, and Eren’d talk to him about shit like being so far from their hometowns and how it never got this cold back there in September, _holy shit._

But Jean? Jean’s just kind of a dick who shows up late to every shift, talks in a perpetual whine, and never answers the phone. Unless it’s his own, which he’s practically surgically attached to, tapping endlessly at the screen, reflected in his big, dumb, thick framed glasses Eren is 80% sure aren’t prescription (if the skinny jeans are any indication.)

Jean, who’s able to find a marathon of whatever reality TV show bullshit no matter what channel he flips to. Jean, who pretends to be checking inventory when he really just doesn’t want to be at the counter and sighs every two minutes and whose existence constantly reminds Eren of those asshole college kids who look down on him and his sucky job in a shitty pizzeria.

Jean, who never stops talking.

“Why the hell does a pizza place,” Jean says, stirring the vat of beef, “have a Taco Tuesday special?”

“Tuesdays used to be our slowest days. Now they’re one of our busiest,” Eren tries not to wince at the sick squelching sound the wooden spoon makes against the meat. 

“But who gets drunk on a Tuesday night and orders tacos and pizza at 3am?”

Eren shrugs. “Lot of people, apparently.”

“But the tacos aren’t even _good,”_ Jeans stresses, banging the spoon against the side of the tub, glob of beef refusing to fall off no matter how hard he hits it.

“S’not the point. Plus, if you’re going hard on a Tuesday night, you’re definitely the kind of kid who takes advantage of any sort of dubious taco deal.”

Jean sighs, head lolling back, muttering something about only having two hours to go, and Eren has to bite back a grin. He doesn’t even hate the kid, not really, but he gets the distinct feeling Jean hates him, which at worst gives Eren a headache and at best gives him something to entertain himself with. 

So he might as well have some fun, right?

Like putting ‘Rhythm of the Night’ on the juke forty times in a row.

Jean beats his head against the counter. “I fucking hate you, Jaeger.”

“Hate is a strong word, Jean Kirschstein,” Eren singsongs as he opens a new tub of ricotta.

“Every single night,” Jean whips his head up. “Even you’ve gotta be sick of it by now.”

“Not really, no,” Eren says. At a quarter a song, ten dollars a night, that’s two and a half hours of the musical stylings of El DeBarge. Worth it, in Eren’s opinion. He hums along emphatically, and Jean groans, letting his head drop back against the counter.

Eren claps him on the back twice, probably harder than necessary, and as he passes lets his hand run across Jean’s shoulders, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jean pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up. Another favorite pastime--little flirty touches that turn Jean red from his hairline down past the collar of his shirt, blotchy and bright and impossible to miss.

(“Seriously? You need to get laid, man,” Eren’d said the first time he saw it happen. Which had only earned him an outraged glare and a harsh _shut up,_ the last thing Jean would say all night. Which had, weirdly enough, sucked. A lot. Jean’s no fun when he’s not biting back.)

“That’s it!” Jean starts climbing over the counter. “I’m unplugging that thing! I can’t take this stupid song any--”

“Jean,” dark, probing eyes look out from the ajar office door, Levi’s face peeking through, voice so eerily calm. Eren clutches the tub of cheese tighter. “Why is your dirty fucking boot on my nice, clean countertop?”

“Uh, I-I was just…” Jean freezes for a second, then tips backwards, falling onto the floor before scrambling towards the storage room. _“I’ll clean it right now.”_

“See that you do,” then his eyes turn on Eren, glinting dangerously. “That ricotta’s not your girlfriend, Eren. You’re going to break the container.”

The door slams. The container cracks, leaving Eren with a long, suspicious looking white stain on the front of his apron that he’s uselessly trying to blot off with a napkin when Connie kicks through the door, complaining animatedly about people who’ve apparently never heard of a _fucking delivery tip_ when he freezes at the counter. 

Connie looks between Eren and Jean, both red faced and hunched into themselves before sighing. “The hell did you two do now?”

“Shut up, Connie,” they say at the same time, then turn to glare at each other in the same beat. 

Connie laughs, placing a hand on the counter and motioning with the other one. “Alright--next round.”

-

Before Pulito, Eren had only ever worked off the books as a stable boy for Hannes back when he was a kid, so things like ‘mandated breaks’ had been a pretty foreign concept to him. Honestly he doesn’t really like them. Thirty minute chunks of time where he has nothing to do but wander up and down the street, or play a dumb games on his phone, or harass Jean until he’s distracted enough to accidentally burn something (the third being his favorite, but also the most likely to make Levi refuse to give Eren his portion of tips at the end of the week).

But on Sunday night Armin texts him saying he just finished up at the library and he’ll swing by. Eren smiles to himself as the back room door gets kicked open, Jean lugging a box through it into the kitchen.

“I swear,” Jean grunts, setting it down behind the counter. “This place spends more money on Clorox than it does on sauce.”

Entirely possible, Eren thinks, kneeling down to slice open the tape with one of his keys. “These the multisurface wipes?”

“Mhmm,” Jean wipes at his forehead. “Just unloaded ‘em all--six boxes. This one goes up here.”

Eren lets his eyes slide up the long line of Jean’s body. He’s one of those guys who wears hoodies everywhere, all the time, but this week’s been unseasonably warm for October, and all the lifting’s made Jean chuck the purple sweatshirt Eren had previously wondered if the kid was sewn into. The tanktop underneath looks soft and well worn, clinging enough to make Jean pull at the front of it, trying to fan himself. Biceps. Thick biceps and broad shoulders, the scoop of the tank hanging low enough to show off the dip of smooth pecs. He’s lean, but compact, something that’d been obscured by that baggy-ass hoodie Eren suddenly wants to find and burn.

Sharp eyes catch Eren. “The hell’re you staring at?”

“Nothing,” Eren looks away, then feels dumb for backing down so easily. “You shave your chest or wax it?”

Jean kicks the box out of his reach before grabbing his apron off the hook near the door. “I’m taking my break after this order.”

“Get the dough out of the fridge!” Eren tells him, face hot. He’s not...unaware of the sharp tugs in his belly and the tightness in his chest he gets sometimes when Jean’s around, or how his face and smell and voice cling to Eren’s mind, blooming warmly in his thoughts whenever he’s waiting for the bus at the end of the street, when he’s staring up at his dark ceiling, wired awake as 5am crests in the sky outside. Then 6am. 7am. 

So he knows. But it doesn’t matter. Jean’s still kind of a shitstain, and even if he wasn’t, Eren’s--

He’s not letting himself have that. Eren wishes he was the kind of person who could just hatefuck someone without feeling a damn thing, but the plain truth is that he can’t. He feels too much, always, constantly, rawly. And Eren knows the second he lets any of that, Jean won’t be able to deal. Eren honestly can’t even deal with himself sometimes.

The bell chimes above the door, Armin winding through with an armful of books, bag looking like it probably weighs twice as much as he does, jacket tied around his waist and hair pulled back into a low ponytail as he trips and almost takes out a nearby table.

Eren snorts, wiping down the counter. “Hey Armin, I’ll be with you in a second.”

Armin grabs the empty seat he almost bulldozed over. “Take your time.”

But Eren doesn’t want to take his time. He can literally count on one hand the amount of times during his existence where he’s actually taken his time, and right now will definitely not be added to the collection. He’s been on his feet all night and he’s bored and he hates refilling the napkin dispensers, still keyed up from the Tank Top Situation, so he sets the box on top of a nearby table and hollers towards the stockroom, “Jean! I’m taking my thirty!”

“What?” Jean crashes back onto the scene, livid. “Yo, I _just_ told you I was taking mine once I finished this pie.”

“Yeah, but my friend’s here right now and you can wait a half hour to go stand in the cold and abuse your lungs,” Eren shoots back, unlooping the apron from around his neck.

“I’m Armin,” Armin chirps, waving. “Nice to meet you.”

“Wish I could say the same…” Jean grumbles, barging back through the double doors.

“Ignore him, he’s kind of a jackass,” Eren settles into the seat across from Armin, feeling his back crack and pop, arching into it.

“It’s okay,” Armin says. “I’m pretty used to those.”

Eren leans in. “Hey--got a ten on you?” 

“Uh,” Armin reaches slowly for his wallet. “Yeah?”

Eren grins, maybe just a touch too devious. 

Jean actually screams when the song comes on again, loud enough that Levi has to come out of his office.

“Keep it the hell down, the calzones are temperamental,” he barks, then rounds on Eren. “And you--refrain yourself from being a pain in the ass for five consecutive minutes, would you?”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Eren points towards the back. “Jean’s the one screaming.”

“You’ve worked here for two years, Eren,” Levi walks over to the juke, pulling the plug out of the wall. “I know better than to assume you’re not the antagonist. Keep it up and you won’t get tips this week.”

“Oh come on!” Eren balks, watching Levi retreat back into his office. He turns to Armin. “Can you believe that?”

“I can, actually,” Armin turns his smile against the palm of his hand, but Eren can see it clear as day in his eyes. 

“Shut up,” Eren glares, though not for long, because his eyes keep flittering to the counter where Jean is kneading the dough for a fresh pie, shoulders working and arms straining. He whirls forward when Jean catches him looking and gives Eren the good ol’ one finger salute, only to be faced with Armin’s usually cherubic face tainted a gross shade of smug. He says it again, emphatically, _“Shut up.”_

Armin laughs. Eren sinks down into his seat, further and further until he slips over the edge and lands on the floor.

-

Just like everyone else on Main, they’re closed for Thanksgiving, so Levi asks Eren to come in Wednesday night and repaint the dining area so they can let it dry before reopening Friday. The same crisp white he always has Eren repaint it (three times in two years, the second Levi’s eyes think that white is dimming). He’s getting paid for it, and in a stunning moment of generosity Levi says he can have whatever he wants from the soda machine. For free.

He should’ve known it was too good to be true.

Jean’s flat glare greets him from down the sidewalk, half of his face illuminated by the glow of the convenience store. “You’ve gotta be _fucking kidding me.”_

Eren rolls his eyes, and reaches for the keys on his belt.

“Seriously?” Jean whines, stomping his feet like giant child. “Man, this sucks.”

Eren agrees, quietly, unlocking the door and pushing his way inside. Painting, drinking free rootbeer, blasting whatever on the juke and having some extremely deserved alone time because he lives with the two most overbearing human beings on the face of the planet, and if Mikasa walks into his room one more friggin time without knocking, he’s--

“You just gonna stand there all night, or are you actually gonna do your job?” Jean snaps behind him before bulldozing past. Eren scowls, rubbing his shoulder. Jean probably doesn’t have to deal with roommates barging into bedrooms and bathrooms and yelling at you not to leave the groceries in the doorway. Jean probably lives alone in a one bedroom his parents are paying for. Asshat.

Before Eren even makes half a step towards the juke, Jean jumps. “No! Not tonight--I’m in charge of the tunage tonight, DJ Jaeger.”

Eren rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Eren gets the paint and rollers from the back, snapping out the tarp and wiggling the can lids loose, stirring languidly, looking up every once in the while to look at Jean, who’s taking his sweet ass time picking out songs. He pours the paint into one of the trays and glances up again, following the long line of Jean’s back, highlighted by the window, the curve of his neck, the dip of his lower back. Long, long legs. 

Eren averts his eyes, clearing his throat. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you actually gonna do your job?”

“There is,” Jean peers closer through the glass, “An uncomfortable amount of Michelle Branch on here.”

“How much is an uncomfortable amount exactly?”

“Like any amount, at all,” Jean sighs, jamming the select button. 

“Tape off the ceiling, I’ll do the floor,” Eren tosses Jean a roll, just as the electric drums starts up. Kneeling down, Eren peels off a strip to start when something catches in the corner of his eye. A beer can. 

Jean shakes it in front of his face. “Here.”

“Where--”

“I bought them when I thought I’d be doing this alone,” Jean shoves the can further into Eren’s face. “You want it or not?”

Eren takes it wordlessly, Jean walking over to his open bag and pulling one out for himself. Eren blinks. His face is hot. Why the hell is his face hot.

He coughs. “Good song.”

“Yes, believe it or not, there is more than one song on this jukebox,” Jean pops the tab on his can. “Why the hell do we even have this thing? Levi doesn’t exactly strike me as the music loving type. Or the anything loving type. Or the sleeping type. Does he sleep, does anyone know for a fact?”

“Of course he does,” Eren says, then backtracks, “Probably. Maybe.”

Michael Jackson blares in the background, _“The way you’re making me feel/really turns me on…”_

-

It doesn’t take long for Jean to start giving him shit, though.

About painting.

-

“You make a ‘w’ shape with the roller,” Jean snaps, jerking his arm up and down, “Like this. Have you never turned on HGTV in your life?”

“I’m not a nerd, so,” Eren scoffs, “no.”

 

“Well, when you decide you need to caulk your bathroom and have no clue where to start, it’ll be your own fault.”

Eren cocks at eyebrow. “Caulk?”

Jean turns a sharp glare at him. “You’re literally twelve.”

Eren snorts. “Whatever, caulksucker.”

Jean shoves him, and Eren shoves back, and it’s...god, Eren wants to say this is nice or fun or something just as ridiculous. When Jean’s back is turned he makes a ‘w’ with the roller on the wall. Like he suspected, it does nothing spectacular.

Another can is shoved at Eren, Jean asking, “Want another?”

The first beer’s made Eren’s stomach pleasantly warm, and he’d like to that good giggly stage, so he accepts wordlessly. He pushes the tab down, and really, he should’ve fucking expected the spray of beer in his face. He swears over Jean’s cackle, “Fucking shit--you asshole!”

“Oh my fucking god,” Jean doubles over, clutching at his gut. “You’re face, holy shit, you’re _face.”_

“You asshole,” Eren says again, feeling the cotton of his t shirt stick to his skin, absolutely soaked. “You peice of shit.”

“Aw, you’re fine,” Jean snorts. “What, did I ruin your favorite shirt from Babies-R-Us?”

“We’re painting. You’re supposed to wear old clothes when you paint,” Eren wipes his face with the arm. In truth he’d been ready to go out in whatever he’d put on that morning when Mikasa made him change into his oldest, most ragged jeans and a shirt that were both from high school and barely fit anymore. At least this gave him an excuse to chuck the shirt. “You know what? Fuck it.”

He peels it off, using the dry back to wipe at his face. It takes him a second to realize Jean’s cackling has dissipated, and when he looks up Jean’s got his back turned, painting the wall again. The air is suddenly kinetic with something Eren can’t quite place, faltering as he stands there with his shirt in his hands and his skin rising with goosebumps.

Eren tries, “Uh--”

“C’mon,” Jean snaps, roller in hand as he turns to face the last unpainted wall, “I wanna get this over with.”

-

Eren washes up the best he can in the bathroom, finds a spare rag shirt tucked behind some plastic cutlery boxes. It smells like dust, is super wrinkled, and is...big. He guesses it’s Reiner’s, shrugged it on and getting back out into the dining area. Jean won’t look at him, and Eren glowers at the back of his stupid two-tone head. 

The finish painting in mostly silence, the juke cranking out song after song, and it fittingly fades into older songs--there’s something about painting to “Can’t Help Falling In Love” while not being able to look someone in the eye that makes Eren feel hot and uncomfortable.

They clean up, put the cans and tarps and rollers in the back, and Eren waits as he watches Jean lock up.

“Stop staring at me, you freak,” Jean grunts.

“I’ve never seen someone take like seven years to lock a door before. It’s weirdly thrilling.”

“I can’t lock it when you won’t stop looking at me like that.”

Eren dips his head, leaning in close, liking that for the first time in hours it feels like he has the upper hand. “Like what?”

Jean’s turns a very nice shade of pink, and the moment’s only broken by the sound of a car horn, Mikaka pulling up curbside. Eren startles, ripping himself away. The lock finally clicks into place, and Jean pockets the keys.

“You, uh,” Eren clears his throat, “need a ride?”

“Nah, I walked here.”

“Oh,” Eren blinks. “I didn’t know you lived that close.”

“Yeah,” Jean says, the pause following it thick and uncomfortable before he turns swiftly. “See ya.”

Eren waves, realizing belatedly that Jean can’t see him. 

-

Mikasa’s there to pick him up. She sniffs. “Is there any particular reason you smell like the floor of a skeezy bar?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Eren huffs. They’re rolling down the street when he blurts, “Am I too hairy?”

She almost sails past a stop sign and barely breaks in time to avoid almost crashing into a motorcyclist.

-

Eren washes the spare shirt, takes it into work in a plastic bag, fully prepared to ask Reiner if it belonds to him when Levi snatches it out of his hand. “You know my policy on foreign food in my pizzeria.”

Eren blinks. “It’s not--”

“Where,” dark, hooded eyes turn up towards him as Levi holds up the shirt, “did you get this?”

“I found it,” Eren breaks out into a cold sweat. “Behind the plastic forks and stuff--I had to use it the other--”

Levi steps in, head tilting up. He’s a small man, but he always somehow manages to make Eren feel like he’s two feet tall. “Don’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

He leaves, and Eren has to lean against the wall to get his balance back.

-

Thing is, for such a dive, Levi actually runs a really tight ship. What’s more, he can keep a bunch of weird-ass kids in line while running a legit (albeit seemingly dubious) business. Most of the people he works with are some shade of reliable, and because of that Eren’s pretty much kept his five days a week, eight hour nighttime schedule for most of that time, usually on counter and clean up duty while whoever else makes the food and keeps the back in order, an occasional third person on busier nights and, of course, the delivery guy.

Things change when Connie breaks both of his legs in a freak dirt bike accident.

“Lost control on a turn and skidded out, flipping over the ridge,” Connie taps his knuckles against the fiberglass where Eren’s just signed, right next to Jean’s stupid block letter name, under which Eren decided to scribble is a toolbag. “Also, guess who didn’t know how fucking expensive wheelchairs were until last week.”

“What the hell did you write under my name?” Jean shoves Eren over, squinting down. His hand shoots out to try and snatch the maker from Eren. “Are you fucking--give me that.”

Eren snorts, winding out of Jean’s reach. “Not a chance.”

“As much as I would love these casts to become a mural dedicated to your unresolved sexual tension,” Connie sighs, and Eren feels his skin ignite from his chest up, the weight of Jean against his back as he tries to grab the sharpie suddenly feeling like the weight of the world. “I don’t actually want that at all. Your cast signing privileges are rescinded.”

“Seriously?” Jean’s got Eren in a headlock when the backroom doors swing open.

“Jean,” Levi tosses him the keys. “You’re on delivery duty until further notice.”

Jean splutters. “Why can’t Eren?”

Eren pretends to be interested in the straw wrapper on the table, ripping it to bits.

“Because despite having a GPS on his phone, and despite most of the deliveries going to the TU campus, Eren is incapable of getting to any given address in under forty-five minutes.”

Jean drops his head back. “Of course.”

Levi’s bored eyes glint. “Is there an issue?”

-

It turns out Jean can’t drive.

-

“I have _anxiety,”_ he insists.

“Then you’ll make the deliveries together,” Levi says, tossing the keys up into the air and stalking off towards the office. “Merry Christmas.”

-

Sliding open the back door to the van a wave of garlic and marinara sauce hits them, pungent enough to make Eren’s eyes water.

Jean coughs. “Seriously?”

Eren braces himself, sliding the stack of pies into the back seat, Jean handing him the next. “Alright, you got the GPS ready?”

Jean pulls out his phone, tapping at the screen. “You actually going to listen to me?”

“Depends--you gonna be reasonable or ridiculous?”

Jean makes a series of affronted noises as he spins away to load the pies into the backseat that actually kind of make Eren worry about him.

“I’ll take that as a ridiculous, then,” he sighs, making his way over to the driver’s side.

-

Two weeks into their tag team delivery guy gig, and it’s actually...not terrible. 

Maybe it’s because Eren’s expectations were so incredibly low, but it’s really surprising that things are running so smoothly. When he and Jean sync up and get past their own bullshit, they’re actually pretty seamless. They get places on time, which impresses everyone. Even Levi makes a sound that doesn’t seem entirely displeased after they come back that first night, no one having called about late pizzas demanding refunds, the van (and each other) intact.

Two weeks in and Eren can, very quietly, and only to himself, admit that he actually likes it, this thing they do. Rolling through Trost in this gross van and blasting holiday music, slow and easy with the colorful strands of lights lining the backdrop of townhouses, framing Jean’s profile as he grins and talks about how when he was in high school he and his friends ran a inflatable lawn ornament theft ring in between giving Eren easy directions. It’s something very close to nice, and on Christmas eve, kind drunk on his mom’s living room floor as he watches everyone toss colorfully wrapped gifts and shout at each other over the sound of the old record player, his warm thoughts keep slipping to Jean’s face, usually followed something like _I wish he was here right now._

-

Of course it couldn’t last, because two weeks in is when Connie breaks the news.

-

“Engaged?” Eren balks.

“I asked ‘er last night, and she said yes!” Connie laughs, big and loud. 

Eren claps his back, face breaking out into a huge grin. “That’s so great, man.”

“Seriously?” Jean drawls, sliding the pizza boxes into the thermal bag. “You’re getting engaged _now?”_

“We’ve been together for almost five years. I mean,” Connie shrugs, “It’s kinda time. 

“That’s your only reason?” Jean shoots him a deadpan look. “‘It’s time’? Romantic.”

“I just meant I always knew it’d be her,” Connie says easily, because not even Jean’s downpour of skepticism can bring the kid down. “Since we were kids. Now’s a good as time as any.”

Eren tries to cut Jean off. “How’d you do it?”

“I honestly didn’t even know I was gonna--I mean, we’ve talked about it since high school, y’know? And I dunno, last night we were just vegged out on the couch folding laundry, and she put a pair of my boxers on her hand as a joke and like, I just kind of said it.”

Jean’s not done yet, though. “You’re not even done with school. And where the hell’re you gonna get the money for a wedding?”

“We’ll figure it out. We always do,” Connie smiles again, pivoting his wheel chair and heading towards the back room. “There’s some kind of office party on Central--all of those pies are going there. Those guys suck at tipping for fucking accountants.”

-

They make their way back to the van, Jean putting the food in the back, and as he turns Eren grabs his arm.

“Yo,” Eren yanks him in, tightening his grip. “Connie’s really happy. Stop being a dick.”

“Listen, I’m just being realistic,” Jean looms over him, face grim. “You honestly think two nineteen year olds getting married before either one of them finishes school is gonna work out? Grow up, Eren.”

“I do think that, but even if I didn’t it wouldn’t matter. They’re happy, so _back off,”_ Eren squints up at Jean. “God, you honestly just want everyone to be as miserable as you are, don’t you?”

Something sobers in Jean’s expression, and Eren thinks a small, sordid thought that maybe he went too far. But Jean went too far first, so whatever (right?) He stalks around the driver’s side, climbing in as Jean takes his sweet ass time fuming on the sidewalk before getting in, slamming the passenger’s door behind him hard enough to make the entire van shake.

Eren hits the radio, and pulls away from the curb.

-

It’s not a good night.

-

Jean yells, “I can’t fucking believe you--”

“Me?!” Eren says, “You! You’re the one--”

Whatever understanding they had before in the name of getting the deliveries made flies out the window, their usual spats spiralling into downright verbal brawls, Jean’s car anxiety taken up a notch (or ten), and any time Eren even so much as goes more than thirty he loses it. And while he’s losing it, he loses track of where they’re supposed to be going, which winds up with them getting lost in the ‘burbs while the GPS keeps striving to correct itself and get them to their destination. 

“We’re gonna have to give so many refunds. We’re not gonna get tips this week, Eren.”

“Yeah, because of _you.”_

Jean scoffs, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “Oh yeah, sure, it’s all my fault.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“God,” Jean pulls at his beanie, tugging it down. “I fucking hate you.”

The swoop of his stomach makes Eren forget to break right away for the stop sign, the truck with the right of way blaring its horn and making Eren slam down his foot just in time to avoid getting wrecked.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jean shouts, color gone from his face. _“What the fuck, Eren?”_

“I’m sorry,” Eren says, barely a whisper, heart screaming against this ribs, making his skeleton rattle, his entire body shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Jean slinks back in his seat, clutching a hand over his chest. “Oh man, I think my fucking heart just dropped out of my ass.”

“Are you okay?” Eren asks, wishing his voice wasn’t trembling.

“Other than the fact that you just shaved twenty years off my life?” Jean sighs, eyes shut. “I’m dandy.”

Eren grips at the steering wheel, fingers wound tightly as he tries to get his breathing back under control. He looks in the rearview. The pies fell off the back seat.

He swallows. Shit.

-

They have to go back to Pulito and have Connie and Bert remake the pies while Levi sits on one of the tables, arms crossed and head tilted as he asks in a voice so unnervingly calm. “Tell me, Eren. Jean. Do the both of you enjoy shitting on my business? Is it something that gives you a thrill that your girlfriends just can’t? Is that it?”

-

Their last two deliveries of the night are on the Trost campus, which is great--Eren even opts for taking the bigger order (five pies plus side dishes and soda) all the way to the on-campus apartments on the other side of the academic buildings. Anything to get away.

He still gets back before Jean, somehow, contenting himself with texting Mikasa about the whole fucking night and getting aggravated when all she keeps sending back is _lolololololololol_

He’s jolted out of this thoughts when Jean comes out of nowhere and rips the door open. “Shit, man--”

Jean slams it behind him, the van shaking from the impact, grunting out, “Let’s go.”

“Christ,” Eren slides his phone into his pocket. “What crawled up your ass?”

“Just fucking drive, Jaeger.”

They putter off campus in silence, but the second they get to the main road they’re slammed with the Central Avenue crossroad light that takes for-fucking-ever to change. Eren always tries to blow it while it’s still orange, but Jean has these hissy fits when he does, ergo.

Eren peeks at Jean out of the corner of his eye, who’s looking out the window, facing completely away from Eren. His hands keep reaching up to touch his face. 

Wiping tears, Eren realizes.

“One time,” Eren starts, before he really even thinks about what he’s saying, “Before Connie took over the van, I had a huge order down by the docks--literally, twenty pies, right? So I have a handtruck, rolling up to this warehouse with twenty pies, and I have to go down this alleyway and down this concrete stairwell to a giant steel door, and there’s tiny square latch thing and it opens and this Gwar impersonator asks me for the password.”

Jean turns back. “Password?”

“Right? So I’m like, _I don’t know the password, but I’ve got the pizzas you ordered,”_ Eren locks eyes with Jean. “The door opens, and it’s this guy--full BDSM gear.”

_“What?”_

“Like, assless chaps and leather straps and studs and he had a whip hanging off his belt and everything. And this is a big guy, too--easily 6 and a half feet and like, 350. And he’s getting the money and I can...I hear all these sounds, and the guy moves to the side to grab something, so he’s not completely blocking the doorway and I can see in and there’s a massive. Fucking. Orgy going on.”

Jean’s draw drops. “Shut the hell up.”

“I swear,” Eren holds up his hand, “to God.”

“What’d you do?”

“I booked it. I took the money and fucking sprinted back to the van. And the second I got home I took about three showers.”

Jean stares. “You’re lying.”

“Believe what you want.”

“Holy shit, you’re not,” Jean wags a finger. “Your ears turn red when you lie.”

“They do not,” Eren grunts, turning his eyes back onto the road, absently scratching at his left ear as the thinks about all the times his mom had said the same thing. He peeks over at Jean again, who at least doesn’t look like he’s about to cry anymore, but is still fidgeting, practically strangling himself with his seatbelt. “You wanna stop for a smoke?”

“No, it’s--” Jean pauses, then goes, “Actually, yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

4am means the local supermarket is closed, Eren pulling into the deserted lot and parking the van square in the middle, taking up like four spaces just because he can.

Jean fishes out his pack and a zippo lighter--some legit looking thing with like, engravings on the sides that’s actually kind of pretty, especially in Jean’s hands. Eren clears his throat, looking over to darkened Stop&Shop storefront. The only lights are coming from the streetlamps, everything that artificial orange that makes the entire parking lot look like a different world. Something catches in the corner of his eye, Jean holding out the pack and asking, his own lit cigarette muffling his words, “Want one?”

“Nah,” Eren leans against the front of the van, still hot, cooling with tiny clicking sounds. “I’ve like, 90% quit.”

Jean hums, a kind of _suit yourself,_ smoke pluming up from his mouth. Pink, always soft looking, because Jean’s one of those guys who always has a tube of chapstick somewhere on him. Fruity chapstick that smells like pina colada or something whenever Eren is close enough to catch it wafting off of Jean’s breath. 

They’re quiet for a good minute, then--

“The room I went to,” Jean pulls a long drag, “was my ex’s.”

“Shit.”

Jean exhales, smoke filling the space between them. “With his new girlfriend.”

His new girlfriend. His. Eren’s skin prickles. “Shit.”

“And like, it was clear they were just done being,” Jean rolls a hand through the air, “together.”

“Jean, that’s…” Eren pulls at the collar of his jacket. “That’s shitty. That sucks.”

“Like honestly,” Jean rocks forward, throwing the butt on the ground. “I knew--I knew he was with her now. Just friends my ass...”

“You knew her?”

“From high school. We all like, hung around together. I mean,” Jean turns to him. “Marco and I were best friends, first. We knew each other since sixth grade, and then we got together when we were juniors, and-and he was my first _everything_. God, I went to Trost for him.”

Eren’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“No. Well, it was between Trost and traveling, and I wanted,” Jean scuffs his shoe against the ground. “I wanted to be with him, y’know? So I took my travel money and put it down on first semester. We didn’t even make it to Thanksgiving before he was like, _I can’t do this anymore.”_

Eren blinks rapidly, looking forward again. “Wow.”

 

“I know,” Jean says, “I dropped out a week later. College wasn’t for me, anyway. So now I’m just trying to put some money away so I can go travel like I wanted to in the first place.”

Eren feels it, welling up in his throat, like it always does before the explosion. “Fuck that guy!”

Jean’s gaze snaps up, tunneling into him in a thousand yard stare.

“Seriously,” Eren grips at Jean’s shoulder. “You deserve way better than that. Gimme a cigarette--I’m mad now.”

Jean reaches for his pack. “Thought you quit.”

“90% quit,” Eren takes one and sticks it between his lips. “Sometimes I rage smoke.”

Jean snorts, holding out his lighter. “That’s very you.”

“Shut up.”

When Eren takes the lighter. Their fingers brush. Stupid, he thinks.

“Where’re you gonna go?” Eren asks.

“Hm?”

“When you start traveling,” Eren says, “Where’re you gonna go?”

“Indonesia,” Jean answers, fishing out his pack again.

Eren cocks an eyebrow. 

“Okay, no, hear me out,” Jean waves a hand through the air. Fingerless gloves. Of course. “Komodo dragons.”

Eren snorts. Jean lights another cigarette, talking through clouds of smoke about kimodo dragons, and Eren listens. They stay there a good while longer, until they can’t stand the cold any longer.

-

After that, things get progressively more complicated. Now Eren keeps looking at Jean, because now everything Jean says and does is colored by all of the things he confided in Eren, the faceless phantom of his ex hovering over his shoulder. Now Eren notices the look Jean gets on his face whenever ‘Summer of 69’ starts playing Now Eren sees the way Jean quietly detaches himself from the conversation anytime Connie brings up the wedding. Now Eren sees that Jean is sad, and feels like it’s somehow his personal mission to fix it.

He’s contemplating on exactly how he can do this when Connie walks through the door.

“Hey!” Eren feels a grin stretch his face. “Look who’s chair free.”

“Got the casts off this morning,” Connie does a quick twirl. “I think I got taller--don’t I look taller?”

Jean walks over, taking his head and measuring the top of Connie’s head to his own chin. “I think you shrunk, actually.”

“Hey, be nice, or I won’t invite you to come out and celebrate tonight,” Connie punches Jean’s shoulder. 

“Celebrate what?” Jean cocks an eyebrow.

“My ability to scratch my shins to my heart’s content, my engagement to the girl I’m in love with, being alive on a Thursday,” Connie slaps Jean’s back. “We’re young, we don’t need a reason!”

“Stop hitting me, you fuck,” Jean grunts, wincing. 

“Reiner and Bert are coming, too. C’mon, it’ll be good.”

Jean scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t--”

“I’m in,” Eren leans his elbows against the counter. “So long as it’s anywhere but the bar in Applebee’s.”

Connie looks appalled. “But half off apps after ten! Nachos!” 

“The drinks are gross, and I’m pretty sure we’re not allowed back in after the last time. Y’know, when Reiner almost decked that bartender?”

“Oh yeah,” Connie squints, then shook his head, waving a dismissive hand. “It’ll be fine, so long as no one tells him Dave Matthews sucks again.”

“Dave Matthews does suck,” Jean crosses his arms. Eren and Connie turn, giving him an expectant look, and he deflates. “Fine. Whatever. But the second ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ comes on and people start drunkenly singing along, I’m out.” 

-

They don’t go to Applebees at Bert’s quiet insistence, and Eren even gets Armin to come out even though Armin doesn’t drink. They pile into some college dive on Central that smells like damp towels and sour beer, but shots are decently cheap and they don’t card.

Which is probably why it’s so packed, even for a weeknight. Eren remembers, two Long Island Ice Teas in, why he hates college kids. He can hear the trickles of at least four different conversations about how the music the bar’s playing sucks, and how they should really put on some Imogen Heap, y’know? Or ABBA, but only ironically.

Eren loves ABBA, absolutely sincerely. Fuck these kids.

“I hate college kids,” Jean grumbles next to him. “I hate college bars. Why the hell did I come here?”

“Obviously to hang out with me,” Eren elbows Jean’s arm. Jean downs the rest of his drink, ice clinking. “Want a refill?”

“Nah, I’m gonna pace myself,” Jean says.

Eren licks at his teeth, leaning in as he sings, _“Chicken.”_

Jean’s eyes glint. “Shut the fuck up and order shots then, Jaeger.”

-

The night keeps on with a good amount of liquor and top 40 hits blasting over the dance floore everyone takes turns winding through. Reiner’s actually kind of good, Eren thinks as he snorts, at least in comparison to Bert who’s just standing there kind of shifting is weight from foot to foot, and Connie who is all over the place trying to spin Armin around.

Jean and Eren wind up strongholding their booth against the constant waves of college kids trying to weasel their slimy, non-ABBA loving way in. At least, that’s the official reason he and Jean seemed to have agreed on. Really, though, the way their thighs are pressed together alongside each other, warm and good with booze buzzing under his skin and the smell of Jean leaning in close to talk over the music, something about living in Bali for a couple months--Eren doesn’t really want to be anywhere else.

He snorts, swaying forward. “Your hair is so dumb.”

“Your face is so dumb,” Jean flicks Eren’s ear. “And at least mine has a style--your’s is just a mop.”

“A soft mop. So soft, like,” Eren grabs Jean’s wrist, bringing his hand up. “Here, feel it.”

Jean struggles to yank his arm back. “Dude, I’m not feeling your hair.”

“Do it.”

“Christ, let go--how strong are you?”

“Just feel it, Jean,” Armin leans his chin into his hand, smile bemused. “It’s useless trying to fight Eren, believe me.”

“Jesus Christ,” is barely audible over some Ke$ha song blaring out over the speakers, but sure enough Eren feels fingers (long, long, soft fingers that knead dough really well and always pop the tabs off of soda cans distractedly and hold cigarettes like, all elegantly and shit) slide through his hair. Then again, pushing it back from his face, making Eren look up. He always thought Jean’s eyes were mean looking, sharp and always watching, always noting.

But there’s like, an undeniable warmth to them. A brightness. Or maybe that’s just the booze. Eren doesn’t know, but his belly is flooded with it.

Armin clears his throat. 

Jean jumps back, going, “I gotta piss--lemme out.”

Jean pushes through the throngs of people, Eren watching him, and when he turns back Armin is giving him this look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he sips at his water, looking away.

Eren glares. “No, say it. Say what you were gonna say.”

“It’s nothing, just,” Armin smiles. “I just think it’s good night, is all.”

Eren cocks an eyebrow. “A good night?”

“Yeah. It’s the atmosphere. You can tell good things are gonna happen,” Armin nods, agreeing with his own words. 

Eren makes a face, and notices Jean making his way back. “Jean, Armin’s being--what’s wrong?”

Jean crashes back down into the booth, ducking his head. Shaking hands reach for the shot of Jack still sitting on the table, and he throws it back, wincing before going, “My stupid ex is here. Shit.”

“Fuck, really?” Eren cranes his neck, and then belatedly realizes he has no clue what this kid looks like. But he wants to. “Where?”

“End of the bar. Red shirt. _My_ shirt,” Jean reaches for what’s left of Eren’s gin and downs it. “With the really pretty, petite black haired girl.”

Oh. Eren frowns. He’d kind of wanted the kid to be mad fugly, or at least pointedly average--but he’s tall and built looking with a sweet face girls probably go apeshit over. He looks nice, which makes Eren angrier, because he’s not nice. He’s the reason Jean can’t listen to Bryan Adams or like, _love again,_ so he’s fucking not nice at all no matter what his freckles say otherwise.

“I can’t stay here,” Jean fidgets, reaching for his coat. “If he sees me, he’s gonna try and come over.”

Eren squints. “Seriously?”

“You don’t know Marco--he’s alway fixing shit or trying to and he definitely feels weird about the night I was in his dorm, god--”

“He’s walking over,” Armin says as he turns around. “I’ll distract him if you want. I’m excellent at falling over and causing a scene.”

“Armin, don’t. You’ll actually hurt yourself,” Eren pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve gotta like,” Jean scrambles for his jacket. “I dunno, learn how to turn invisible within the next five seconds or something.”

Eren blinks slowly, moving before he can think it over too much. Or at all. “Don’t freak out.”

Jean makes a face. “What’re you--”

It’s a dumb idea, and Eren knows it, but it’s also a really good idea, which is actually pretty par for the course, as far as all of Eren’s plans go, hands darting out to cup at the back of Jean’s head, pulling him in.

There’s flailing, Eren can feel it, and he can hear Armin choking on his own laughter across the table followed up by a _oh, jeez_ , but then the melt happens, Jean’s hands fisted in Eren’s clothes, yanking closer, the angle righted as Jean tilts his head and kisses back.

By kisses back, Eren means Jean mauls his mouth with a heat and forocity that makes Eren’s head swim, because that’s how he kisses. Eren kisses like air doesn’t matter, he kisses to bruise, he kisses like it’s a fight because that’s how he is with everything, but he’s never had anyone kiss him back with that same kind of intensity. It sets his blood on fire, the way Jean’s tongue fucks his mouth and grunts when Eren bites at his bottom lip.

“Guys,” a voice says. Small. Distant. “Guys, he’s gone.”

Right.

Eren pulls back, facing away immediately and pressing the back of his hand against his swollen mouth. He doesn’t want to look at Jean. He can’t look at Jean. He coughs. “Sorry.”

“No it’s--,” Jean’s voice is raw, like he’s been screaming. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Armin sighs, loud and noisy. “Times like these are when I wish I actually drank.”

-

Somehow they end up back at Jean’s apartment, of all places.

“I said I wanted to go home,” Jean grumbles, pushing the door open. “Nowhere in that statement was an invitation for any of you to come.”

“You place is just as boring as I always imagined it,” Eren says, scanning the room. Bare walls, save the giant Pink Floyd tapestry on the far one and some plastic milkcrates full up with what look to be DVDs. CDs. Odd ends. It’s over the laundromat a mere two blocks from the pizzeria, kind of cramped and the layout is super weird with the living room in front of the kitchen, leading the a cramped corridor that stems off into the bathroom, Jean’s bedroom, and maybe a closet.

“Always imagined it?” Jean echoes, corner of his mouth flicking up. Eren’s cheeks warm, eyes averting.

“Monopoly!” Connie shouts. “I was promised Monopoly.”

“No one wants to play Monopoly,” Reiner says, “You don’t even want to play Monopoly. In fifteen minutes you’re gonna get really bored and start making it rain on people.”

“Not if I’m the banker.”

“Connie you can’t do quick math to save your life, especially not when you’re this drunk.”

Eren watches Jean break off and head down the dark hallway. He squints. 

He stumbles through the kitchen to the hall, sliver of light peeking through a door at the end that he pushes open, hit immediately with the sharp smell of that cologne Jean always uses--amber sandalwood whatthefuckever that follows Eren even when Jean’s gone, somehow catching on his clothes like cigarette smoke. 

Jean’s at the far end of the room (not really _far_ \--there’s barely room to move around the bed) in front of an open dresser, shirtless in a pair of sweats, whipping around at the sound of Eren barging in. “The hell’re you doing?”

Eren turning, looking around the room, mostly to keep himself from staring at Jean. “I needed to piss, but now I’m invading your personal space by poking through your belongings. Why do you have three copies of the same Nietzsche book?”

“Two of them were gifts. Apparently I look like that kind of guy, I guess,” Jean scratches at the back of his neck. There’s that pink again--it reaches all the way down his chest. Eren kind of really wants to reach out and touch, feel how hot it is, but Jean yanks a shirt on over his head, hair mussed now. The shirt has a picture of a game cartridge on the front with the words _BLOW ME_ slapped below it. It’s unbelievably dumb looking just like his dumb two-tone hair and his dumb pink lips.

Eren feels his chest clench, snorting. “You really do.”

“Shut up.”

Eren flops backwards onto the bed, bouncing and kicking off his shoes. “Points for comfy bed, though.”

Jean lifts a leg, pushing at Eren’s shoulder with his foot. “Could you not rub your grody bar clothes all over my nice clean sheets?”

Eren squirms over, making room. “1985 called, they want their slang back.”

“1995 called, they want their joke back.”

Eren grins, slow and drunk and warm. “Caulksucker.”

“I give up,” Jean sits at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I just give up.”

Eren pats his back. “That’s the spirit.”

 _“Eren, Jean!_ ” Connie’s voice rings out from the living room. _“The hell are you guys--ow! Armin, the fuck man?”_

“Not in the mood for Monopoly?” Jean lies back next to him. It’s a twin, with just enough room to share it comfortably, but Eren has never felt more uncomfortable. Antsy.

“Armin always wins, so there’s really no point,” Eren shrugs, trying not to fidget.

“That’s a very un-Eren thing to say.”

“Yeah, well, I’m drunk and tired and I’m friggin’ _opening_ tomorrow,” Eren says. He doesn’t say that he’d rather just stay in Jean’s room, smelling amber sandalwood whatthefuckever and feeling the warmth of Jean’s body radiating through layers of clothing. He turns his head, eyes tracing over the sharp profile of Jean’s face. “You okay?”

“Hm,” is all Jean gives him. “Sleepy.”

“Meant about before. At the bar.”

“Oh,” Jean peeks an eye open. “You’re a pretty terrible kisser, but I’m not totally traumatized.”

Eren whacks him in the face with a pillow. “I’m a great kisser. Your mom said so.”

Jean yanks the pillow away. His dumb hair is even messier, eyes glazed sweetly as he stares up at Eren, mouth stretched into an easy grin that shoots straight through Eren’s gut with the loveliest kind of pain. Eren’s leaning in even as Jean is saying, “Prove it.”

The feeling of Jean underneath him, his hands running up and down the length of Eren’s body, syrupy heat licking through him as he sinks his full weight against Jean, the sound of smacking lips and huffed breaths the only sound he can hear.

Jean rolls him off with a plop, pulling back just long enough to adjust, both of them on their sides before he presses back in with a hot, wet mouth, hand sliding over Eren’s jaw and back into his hair, gripping there. Eren shivers, sliding his tongue over the roof of Jean’s mouth, and feels him shiver, too. Eren hasn’t had hands on him like this in so long, big and warm and under his shirt, branding his skin, pulling him in. He sucks on the end of Jean’s tongue, imagining if it was the head of his cock instead when there’s suddenly a hand on his chest, pushing him back. Eren’s eyes flicker open.

“We should stop,” Jean says. “‘M still drunk.”

You still love him, Eren thinks. Knows. He untangles himself, shifting onto his back, his body too hot and the room too cold.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eren says, because it is. Even if there’s this weird, dull ache deep in the center of his chest now that won’t go away. Hasn’t gone away for weeks now. He sits up. “I’ll--”

“Stay,” Jean cuts him off, then, softer, eyes averted, “If you wanna.”

Eren slides back down. “Yeah.”

Jean reaches over for something under the bed, pulling up a laptop. “Netflix?”

Eren shuffles over, head resting against Jean’s shoulder, melting there.

“How do you feel about--”

“I’m not watching _Lost.”_

They end up spending a chunk of time arguing over what to watch, only to fall asleep about five minutes into an episode of _Roseanne_ , the laugh track and the soft thread of Jean’s fingers through his hair the last thing Eren remembers.

-

Eren has a double the next day, one of the rare times he actually opens--he’s gotta be there by ten, which after a full night of drinking and staying up until 5am actually really sucks but--

_“Ooga chakka ooga chakka!”_

Jean swears, pulling the blankets up over his head. “Shut that fucking thing off.”

Eren scrambles with his phone, heart pounding inside his chest as he rubs hands down his face. “Shit.”

“Why the fuck is ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ your alarm?” Jean croaks. “Why can’t you listen to shitty music from this decade?”

“What can I say--every decision I make I make in an effort to make your existence miserable,” Eren snaps back, sighing.

Jean finally draws his head out from underneath the comforter. “Work?”

“Yeah, I’m opening,” he says, reaching for his shoes.

“Still closing later?”

“Yeah.”

Jean yawns, snuffling back down into bed. “See ya then.”

“Yeah…” Eren trails off, the sound of Jean’s deep breathing the only thing to answer him, and the pounding in his chest starts up again, because there’s literally nothing he wants more than to slip back under the covers with Jean. Maybe make out again--

Shit. Shitshitshit, that happened.

Eren doesn’t have time to try and wake Jean back up again so they can fucking hash out their feelings. He finds his jacket throw over the arm of the couch, living room an absolute disaster area of scattered monopoly money that Eren laughs, knowing exactly what Jean’s face will look like when he comes out and sees it for himself.

-

After the initial lunch rush, absolutely no one comes in to Pulito until around 5, and at a quarter to three Levi takes his lunch break and heads out to do...whatever it is he does.

Which means Eren can be on his phone to his heart’s content.

He taps on Armin’s name. _Bored to tears h e l p_

_Who’s working with you?_

_Annie but shes being super Annie today so shes not talkibg to me_

_No jean?_

Eren feels the weight of those words, writing back, _No he’s probably still sleeping lucky bitch_

_You two snuck off last night. What happened??_

Eren stares down at the screen, feeling his stomach flop.

 _Nothing_ , he types, _we watched netflic and fell asleep_

_Mmhhhhhmmm_

_ARMIN_

_You made out in front of me. There’s no way i believe you guys just slept next to each other_

Eren’s face burns. _We kissed but he stopped it we were just drunk i dont think its gonna be a thing and i can already feel you giving me the Armin Look through the phone so stop_

_Didn’t say anything_

His phone buzzes with a text from someone else--Jean, a picture of his living room with monopoly money scattered everyone. He snorts. _connie probably made it rain on armin last night_

_I fucking hate all of you none of you are allowed over ever again_

Eren sends back a bunch of crying faces with, _not even me????_

_Especially not you fucking sleeping in my bed with your grody bar clothes. my sheets smell like fucking jalepeno poppers and tequila_

_Better than the detergent and disappointment it probably usually smells like_

_stfu_ Then, _you drool in your sleep btw_

_DO NOT_

_have to shower. see you in anhour._

The bell above the door chimes and Eren slides his phone under the counter as Levi walks in, past the counter before stopping dead in his tracks and turning swiftly, thousand yard stare tunneling into Eren ruthlessly. “Eren.”

Eren swallows. “Ah, yes, sir?”

“Why are you smiling like an idiot?”

Eren feels the ache in his cheeks as he sucks in his lips. “Just happy to see you, sir.”

Levi holds his gaze for another beat before his eyes flicker down. “If I catch you on your phone again I’ll break it in half.”

-

Jean rolls in at 10 looking annoyingly well rested and smelling like soap, and it runs like a regular night of Jean asking stupid questions and Eren playing the Bangles on the jukebox, egging each other as they refill napkin dispensers and parmesan shakers. But Eren can’t help but feel the undercurrent of strange sadness slipping in with the downturn of every smile, every averted glance, and with each moment that passes it’s made more and more clear to Eren that whatever had happened the night before wasn’t ever going to be brought up again. A drunken mistake. Eren guesses he’s officially wading into the deep waters of his twenties now. 

Spectacular.

When Jean heads out for his break at 1am, Mikasa swoops in.

“Good evening ma’am,” Eren drawls. “How can I help you?”

Mikasa leans over the counter. “I’m going to Wal-Mart tomorrow morning--you need anything?”

“The ache in my lower back gone.”

Something glints in her dark eyes, Eren’s belly giving a sharp, uncomfortable jolt, because he has faced down the look many, many times before, and it always ends up with him in pain. “Is Napoleon around?”

“He’s my boss, you shouldn’t call him--Mikasa,” he watches as she jumps over the counter. “Mikasa…”

“Eren,” her voice is so calm, it’s always so calm, as she spreads her arms wide. “Gimme a hug.”

“Mikasa. Mikasa, no--fucking ow,” Eren feels those arms coil tightly around him, locking at his lower back and squeezing. Christ, he can hear it cracking, and what’s more he feels it. “Owowowowowow _SHIT.”_

Mikasa squeezes harder, then relaxes, pulling back far enough to stare up into his face, arms still around him. “Better?”

“Are you fucking--” Eren straightens, about to unleash hell, when the familiar twinge in his spine is noticeably gone. He arches, rolling his shoulders. “Actually, yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot better.”

“You’re welcome,” she says simply, stepping back. “Also, I want garlic knots.”

“You hate our garlic knots,” Eren grumbles. “You said they taste like chalk.”

“They do taste like chalk,” she shakes open a paper bag. “But free crappy garlic knots are better than no garlic knots.”

Eren jumps. “Whoa, who said anything about free?”

Mikasa avoids the question, filling the bag. “Where’s Jean?”

“He’s on his thirty--god, if you’re gonna take them use the tongs, not your gross fingers.”

“How is he?” she asks, hopping up to sit on the counter with her bag. 

“I dunno, he’s Jean?” his throat tightens. “Why? You like ‘im or something?”

“You just talk about him a lot. Don’t get defensive,” she says through a mouthful, then stares down at the bag, expression grim. “How the hell does Napoleon stay in business with these? They’re horrific.”

“Shut up, he’s gonna hear you,” Eren hisses, eyes darting to the office door.

“Whatever.”

-

Jean comes back in, but by then the typical Friday night rush has picked up, so Eren doesn’t think it’s that weird that they don’t really talk, too busy sliding pies in and out of ovens, just trying to get through the last few hours. After everything is wiped down and no more orders are coming in, Levi brings them into the back to divvy up the tip jar. 

“What? How come I don’t get tips?” Eren gapes, looking around at everyone else leafing through bills.

“Because whenever your gross girlfriend comes in you let her steal garlic knots and call me Napoleon,” Levi grunts, heading back for his office. “If it happens again, you’re fired.”

“Aw man,” Eren sags, turning to Jean as soon as the door shuts behind Levi. “Can you--”

“Here,” Jean shoves the wad of tips into Eren’s chest. “Take it.”

“What? Jean, wait,” Eren catches Jean at the elbow, but Jean just yanks it away.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” is all Jean says before yanking off his apron and heading towards the back door.

-

Reiner’s apparently worked out his schedule to where he can pick night shifts up again this semester, so for the next couple of weeks Eren doesn’t really see much of Jean. Their text conversations don’t really seem to go anywhere either, and Eren tries not to feel hurt over something so stupid sounding. Jean’s probably just busy--Connie says he’s been trying to get a second job.

But they’re still Friday nighters together, so when it’s half an hour into the shift and Jean still hasn’t shown up, forcing Levi to step in for him, Eren can’t help but feel off-kilter. He keeps accidentally ripping holes in the dough when he spins it, which he hasn’t done since his first month working there. 

It sucks.

“Why the hell is Jean so late?” Eren finally asks, shoveling another pie into the oven. “Is he not coming in tonight?”

“He quit.”

Eren whips around. “What? Why?”

“Don’t know,” Levi says, snapping on a new pair of gloves, “Don’t care. He gave his notices weeks ago. You’re on inventory and backorders until further notice.”

Eren ends up burning the pie and has to give the customer their money back over the phone. He knows he’s not getting tips again this week.

\--

Jean won’t answer any of Eren’s texts, which at first was understandable because they were all in capslock and misspelt and really didn’t make much sense--but the more recent ones are concise, simply asking, _Why did you quit? why didn’t you tell me? jean answer me_

Did he...did he do something? But he didn’t. He didn’t fucking do anything, so Jean has no fucking right to fucking just cut him off with no explanation--

He closes the lid on the jar of pickles so tightly he accidentally breaks it.

“Eren,” Armin says gently, taking the broken pieces out of Eren’s hands. “Do you maybe wanna talk--”

“Is he mad about that night?” Eren asks, breath leaving his lungs. “If he’s mad he could just tell me. _Armin.”_

Armin sets the broken jar down in the sink, and turns back with his arms open, waiting. Eren feels it, that last string that been holding together all his paperclips and safetypins is cut, and he falls into Armin.

“We’ll take care of this, Eren,” is all Armin keeps saying, rubbing his back. Armin’s always done that--the soothing touches the words. Mikasa always just clung tighter and tighter, like she would never let go, but never enough to hurt. Like you could stay there forever. Eren wonders how he hugs, and realizes he doesn’t really do it that often.

Eren just clings tighter. It probably hurts but Armin doesn’t complain.

-

Going to work, something that Eren used to look forward to in a way he thinks most twenty-somethings working pizzeria jobs probably don’t, now makes Eren’s limbs lead-heavy, his head weighed down with a ton of clouded thoughts that spread through the rest of his body in throbbing, aching waves. Connie keeps stopping to ask him if he’s okay every time he comes in to pickup the next round of orders. Reiner keeps giving him reassuring shoulder punches. Even Levi leaves the office more, checking various things like the thickness of the pepperoni slices, the shine of the floor tiles, the temperament of the calzones. But Eren can feel eyes cutting into the back of his neck.

Spring Break means even Saturday nights are really slow, and he can’t stop himself from going over every little micro-thing that happened between them. Uselessly, endlessly, he picks apart napkins and lets his carousel mind go round and round when the bell chimes, Mikasa pushing her way inside. He watches her walk toward the counter, setting a brown bag down and sliding it towards him.

“Thanks?” Eren cocks at eyebrow. “But I’m not really hungry.”

“Not for you,” Mikasa says, holding out the receipt, “Look.”

Eren hesitates but takes it anyway, looking down at the slip of paper. Chicken gyro, Greek salad, fries--

_Cardholder; Kirschtein, Je_

Eren whips his head up, staring at Mikasa.

“I was thinking you could take this one,” she shrugs.

“You won’t,” he swallows, “you won’t get in trouble for this?”

“No,” Mikasa says. Lies, probably. “Just go, okay?”

Eren unloops his apron, shouting towards the back, “Levi, I’m taking my thirty!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was...not supposed to be so long omg. thank you for reading--new chapter will be up next week!! things to know: Pulito means clean, "Rhythm of the Night" by DeBarge is a perfect song, and this story will have a happy ending even if the next chapter has some twists and turns. please direct any other questions to chillnaxin.tumblr.com where i dwell most of the time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: ALL SORTS OF SEXIN' and angst and relationship woes and abandonment issues and gross people in movie theaters.

Sprinting to Jean’s apartment through the streetlamp lit streets of Trost, Eren's mind is glaringly, blindingly blank. If he spends more than a second thinking about anything, he won’t be able to do this. And this is something he needs to do--or at least that’s the mantra he keeps chanting in his head as he skids into the alleyway, jams his thumb against the intercom buzzer, and hears the door unlock with a click. He takes the stairs the two at a time, slides down the tiny corridor, pausing outside the apartment as he tries his best to catch his breath, wiping his sweaty face down with the hem of his shirt, attempting to comb his hair down with his fingers before actually knocking.

It opens, light spilling out from behind Jean.

“Hey, yeah, sorry, just gimme a second to find my--” his face drops, expression suddenly painfully neutral. “Eren.”

“Delivery,” Eren holds up the bag, trying to get his breathing under control. “I’m expecting a good tip. Like maybe an explanation.”

Jean pulls out his wallet from somewhere outside Eren's line of vision. “Will a five cover it?”

“Jean.”

Jean snaps, “What, Eren? _What?”_

“I wanna know why the hell you quit,” Eren’s voice echoes down the corridor. “That’s what.”

“Stop yelling. Shit, all you do is yell,” Jean’s hand whips out, grabbing Eren by the front of his sweatshirt and yanking him inside. Eren’s lungs are flooded with that sandalwood cologne Jean smothers himself, and it makes his chest seize. “Christ.”

The door slams shut, and Eren says, low and forceful, “Why did you quit?”

“It’s a shitty job at a shitty pizza place, Eren--did you just expect me to stay there forever?” Jean won’t even look at him, arms crossed and shoulders shrugged, like he’s talking to the carpet.

“No, but I expected you to tell me if you were leaving instead of me having to find out from Levi after you were already gone,” Eren steps in close, forcing Jean to look up. “You don’t just do that to your friends. You don’t just _disappear_ on people.”

“Wasn’t aware that’s what we were,” Jean’s eyes aren’t glinting like they always do when he and Eren fight. They’re purposefully dull.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Eren wishes his voice didn’t crack as he said that.

“Newsflash, Eren, friends don’t get drunk and make out with each other,” Jean throws his hands up. “Especially when one of them has a girlfriend--”

Eren’s stomach bottoms out. “You have a girlfriend?”

Jean stares at him, then, slowly, “ _You_ have a girlfriend.”

“What?” Eren almost laughs. “No, I don’t.”

“I saw you,” Jean is close. He’s always like this--alway getting in Eren’s face and it’s absolutely infuriating, chest sizzling. “You were _embracing_ behind the counter, and then I was like, okay, whatever, maybe I just didn’t have the whole story, but then Levi called her your girlfriend--”

“Mikasa?” Eren almost loses it. “Dude, that’s--she’s my _sister.”_

Jean stares. 

“My sister, Mikasa,” Eren says, “She’s a physical therapist--or, y’know, in school to become one. She was helping fix my back because it kills after standing for so many hours and Levi only said that because Levi doesn’t care that she’s my sister. He just likes making people uncomfortable, so I’ve learned to ignore it.”

“She doesn’t even--”

“She’s adopted,” Eren cuts him off. “We might not be blood related, but she’s my sister.”

Jean pauses, then covers his face with a hand. “Shit.”

“And!” Eren keeps going, pointing a finger right in Jean’s face, “you might not have a boyfriend but it’s still really obvious you’re hung up on Mark, or whatever his name is.”

“Marco,” Jean amends, folding his arms. “And yeah, maybe I am, okay? We were together for years, and friends for even longer, but I know I don’t want to be with him ever again. Not after the way shit went down. So don’t try to throw that in my face.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do at all. I just--you didn’t--” Eren cuts himself off, exhaling, trying to reign it all in. “You pushed me away and then we never talked about it, so I thought we were supposed to pretend like it never happened.”

Jean rubs at the back of his neck, other hand deep in his pocket. “I just didn’t say anything because you didn’t say anything.”

Eren stares at him. “Man, we’re so fucking dumb.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jean snorts, shoulders falling. Whatever charged tension was between them fizzles into something thick, sleepy, and inescapable. But it’s still there, hot and heady between their two salt pillar bodies, and Eren realizes it’s always been there. Since the first time they fought over who needed to take the trash out to the dumpster to right here, right now.

“Uh, here’s your food,” Eren holds out the bag

Jean takes it, cocking an eyebrow. “Do I even wanna know how?”

“Nah, I gotta keep an air of mystery about me,” the last string of tension snaps, and makes Eren melt on the spot, makes him not want to leave. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking away. “I’m actually on my thirty, so…”

“You should probably head back then.”

“Yeah.”

Jean pauses, and Eren watches the pink splotched in his cheeks turn deep red. “Uh, if you wanna come over when your shift ends--”

“When my shift ends at four in the morning?” Eren tilts his head.

“I’ll be up,” Jeans says neatly.

Eren’s cheeks go hot. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

There’s a beat, and Jean goes, “I thought you were--”

“Yeah, no, I am,” Eren stumbles backwards, hitting into the door before scrambling for the knob. “I’ll, uh, see you in a few hours.”

“I’ll be here,” Jean gives a small wave.

“I--yeah,” Eren coughs, “Bye.”

He closes the door with a slam that rattles the frame, and from inside the apartment he can something crashing against the floor, followed by Jean shouting, _“seriously? Can you not?”_

Eren grins, turns, and flies down the stairs.

-

Jean is up when Eren knocks on the apartment door, in pjs with his glasses on, couch rumpled and clearly tired in a way that makes Eren think the idiot was probably dozing waiting for Eren to show up, everything in the apartment dimmed save for the bright blue wash of the TV churning out some _Full House_ rerun.

“It’s the one where Stephanie drives the car through the kitchen,” Jean tells him, like it matters.

“A classic.”

“I thought so.”

And Eren’s tired. Bone tired. He’s physically drained from work, and emotionally drained from everything else, and there are blankets on the couch that look so warm. Jean looks so warm.

“Are you gonna yell at me if I sit on your couch in my _grody_ work clothes?” Eren asks, kicking off his shoes.

“You could always take them off.”

Eren’s face must read something ridiculous, because Jean backtracks immediately with, “I meant I could lend you--fuck, nevermind.”

Eren inches closer, brushing fuzz off of Jean’s shoulder, then leaving his hand there, feeling the warmth of his body through the threadbare t-shirt. “I could’ve just come over tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“You know what I mean,” Eren can’t help it and he sways forward, face pushing into Jean’s neck. But Jean can’t help it either apparently, pressing his own into Eren’s hair, inhaling slowly, deeply, arms winding.

A laugh bubbles up from Jean’s chest, and Eren feels it more than he hears it. “You smell like gross pizza.”

“Hm.”

“We could go to bed.”

They sway together, Eren nodding.

“For the record,” Eren sighs, “I really wanna have sex with you right now, but I’m just too fucking tired.”

“Ditto.”

Eren almost chokes, pulling back. “Did you just Swayze me?”

Jean smushes a hand into Eren’s face. “Too tired for sex, but never too tired for being a jackass--the Eren Jaeger Story.”

After climbing into Jean’s bed they last about two minutes of constant wiggling and insults before falling into a deep, numbing sleep.

-

“Ow, you fucked up my shoulder.”

“You fucked up my neck,” Jean flicks a cheerio at him. 

Eren locks his feet around Jean’s ankles under the table. “Want me to fuck up your ass?”

That gets Eren the whole bowl of cereal thrown in his face. He splutters, then chases Jean around the apartment threatening to kiss him.

-

Jean’s new job is working the concession stand down at the movie theater, and he always comes around smelling like popcorn. Eren thought it was kind of gross, at first, but freakishly enough he’s developing some weird kind of Pavlovian response, because whenever he smells butter, he knows Jean is close by.

“It’s actually vegetable oil,” Jean tells him, “not butter.”

Eren makes a face. “Ew.”

“You have no idea.”

“Would you be mad--”

Jean cuts him off. “Yes.”

“I didn’t even say what I was gonna do!”

“First hand experience is guiding me towards a very strong yes.”

“Fine,” Eren slumps down on the couch. “Now I’m just not gonna tell you and do it with you.”

-

What he does is visit Jean at work.

-

“What,” Jean grits through his teeth, “in the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s a movie theater,” Eren says, slowly, “We’re here to see a movie, obviously.”

“We?”

“Hi Jean!” Armin waves. “Nice uniform.”

“Yes,” Eren takes out his phone, snapping some pictures. “Very nice uniform.”

Jean’s face turns bright red--almost as red as the bowtie he has on, along with a deep blue shirt and, black vest and matching slacks. His nametag even says Jon. It is, in short, amazing.

“You will regret this,” Jean squints at him, pumping movie theater butter onto their popcorn, soaking it and making it completely inedible. “Dearly.”

“Yeah?” Eren cocks an eyebrow, reaching for the bag.

Jean leans in over the glass countertop. “Yeah.”

“Um,” Armin’s voice rings in from behind Eren. “I’m deeply uncomfortable, so I’m just gonna...go find a seat.”

He tries to goad Jean to give him free Sour Patch Kids. Jean kisses him instead, sweet enough to make his teeth ache.

-

“Holy,” Eren gulps, back arching up off the bed, “ _shit._ ”

They have sex a lot. Like...a lot. Eren’s not sure if it’s because they’re in that honeymoon stage, or if it’s because it always just escalates to that whenever they argue. Would-be fights, middle of a screaming fit, knock-out-drag-out brawls always end up with Eren fisting Jean’s sheets, cursing through clenched teeth.

“God, you’re so--” Jean pants, smoothing his hands over Eren’s chest. “God.”

It’s the middle of a Monday, afternoon light slanting in through Jean’s one tiny window as they sweat out their tension between bunched blankets. One hand trails up his neck, cupping the side of his face with the pad of Jean’s thumb pressing against his abused lips. Eren parts them, sucking it in and pulling off with an obscene sounding _pop_ that makes Jean’s eyes glaze, makes him hitch Eren’s hips up into the cradle of his pelvis as he fucks down into him.

And damn, the boy can fuck. Eren feels kind of dumb for making those sexless jibes at Jean for so long, but how could he have known the brush of Jean’s hands would set him on fire? That the look he’d give through half-lidded eyes before any clothes even came off would get Eren going. That once the wall came down, there was nothing to keep Eren from the flood of want and need he’d been trying desperately to hold back, and that Jean apparently felt the same. That Jean Kirschsten, in the heat of the moment, turned shameless. Hot mouth whispering absolute filth against the sweat slick skin of Eren’s neck, punctuated by bites and sucks in all the places he knew would make Eren fall apart at the seams.

“Gotta let me film you one of these days,” Jean’s hands brand into Eren’s hips, probably hard enough to bruise. “You need to see yourself looking like this.”

“Ha, you wish, you fu-ah! _AH_ ,” Eren reaches back, gripping onto the headboard, trying to get leverage to meet the rock of Jean’s hips. He crumbles quickly, whining open mouthed and wet, Jean’s angle dead on as he wraps those long, long fingers around Eren’s shaft.

“Mmm, yeah, come all over yourself,” Jean says, breathless, pumping hard and quick. “Fucking do it.”

“Shut the fuck up--oh fuck, fuck, nng! _Fuuuuuuuuck,”_ Eren collapses back onto the mattress, back arching as Jean wrings the orgasm out of him. Jean stills, watching him, so pleased with himself. The second Eren comes down from his high panting, his first coherent thought is about how much he hates that smug-ass face. It dissolves quickly, though, Eren clenching down around him, goading Jean on again, eyes fluttering and mouth parting.

Jean’s eyes darken, and he pulls out, stripping off the condom, tugging at himself. “Can I--”

Eren’s already sliding onto the floor. He knows how Jean likes it--all he has to do is kneel there and open his mouth, tongue poking out in a flash of wet pink as Jean spills onto Eren’s face, gasping like he’s gotten the wind knocked out of him.

Eren lets it drip down, hot and thick, letting out a soft moan as the tip traces his bottom lip. He flicks his tongue against it, taste sharp and bitter but too familiar now to really hate. Especially not with the way Jean looks absolutely wrecked over him, slack mouthed and red, so rawly erotic.

“You’re so fucking hot. Shit,” Jean gasps, the arm he’s been supporting himself on shaking until he finally collapses back.

Eren shuffles back up onto the bed, hovering over this stupid boy he kind of really likes.

“Jean,” he bats his eyelashes, drop of jizz dripping off his chin and onto Jean’s chest. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

“You’re gross,” Jean laughs, reaching for the box of Kleenex on the nightstand. “Sorry.”

“Y’know, you splooge on someone’s face, the least you can do is wipe it off,” Eren snatches the tissues.

“Don’t say splooge.”

“Then don’t come on my face.”

Jean coughs, looking away. “I could not, if you don’t like it. I know it’s not like, a thing most people are really into.”

Eren is up now, heading into the bathroom across the hall. “I like it.”

“Really?” Jean’s disbelieving voice echoes through the open doors.

“I mean, it’s gross after, and sometimes you get it up my nose and it’s terrible,” Eren wipes his face down with a washcloth, wandering back into the bedroom. “But when it’s happening I’m pretty into it.”

Jean draws his knees to his chest, still naked and suddenly so interested in picking the skin around his nails, pointedly not looking at Eren. As shameless as he is during, in the afterglow he always shrinks into himself, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “No one else I’ve been with has ever been into it, so.”

Eren climbs back onto the bed, pushing in to press a soft kiss to Jean’s lips. Then again, because it’s addictive, the way his chest still flutters at every touch, the way he still wants so much, so badly. He pulls back, Jeans legs having fallen apart to let Eren lean in, the head of Eren’s soft cock dragging against Jean’s thigh, stomach swooping at the feel of a could-be round two.

“Be honest,” Eren says softly, eyes flickering up to meet Jean’s. “Does my face still smell like jizz?”

Jean collapses back onto the bed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I fucking give up. You happy now? Because I give up.”

Eren grins and wipes the towel over Jean’s stomach before shuffling down, face pressed into Jean’s shoulder. “Hey.”

“What?” Jean turns his head. The sun has started to set in the time they’ve been in bed, and the room is hazy with almost shadows. Jean’s eyes are still bright, though.

Eren doesn’t say anything, just presses his mouth against Jean’s shoulder in an kiss that feels more like a question. A request, maybe.

So Jean can’t really answer, but he pulls Eren in closer just the same.

-

“So you’re…” Armin makes a rolling motion with his hand.

“We’re like, y’know,” Eren scratches at his neck, looking around at the empty tables to make sure no one can hear him. “ _You know.”_

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”

Heat blasts Eren’s face. “We’re together, alright?"

“How nice for you and mini He-Man,” Levi drawls somewhere behind him. “Though I am sad to hear that you and Morticia didn’t work out.”

“Mikasa’s not my girlfriend, she’s my sister,” Eren corrects him half-heartedly. Levi’s not listening anyway. “And Armin’s not my boyfriend, Jean is.”

Levi tilts his head. “Who?”

“Jean,” Eren repeats, and when Levi continues to stare at him, goes, “Kirschstein? Two-tone hair, skinny jeans, looks like a Vampire Weekend song just puked him up?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

Eren balks. “He literally worked here for almost a year.”

There’s a legitimate possibility that Levi is just fucking with him, but on the other hand there’s the distinct possibility that he’s not. It’s kind of exhausting.

“I’m headed out,” Levi says, cutting across the room. “I’d appreciate it if you and Dutch Boy refrain from doing anything lewd in front of the calzones. They’re temperamental.”

The bell chimes, door falling shut again, and Eren feels his legs give out, collapsing against the counter in the melodramatic kind of way he’s probably picked up from spending so much time with Jean. 

“I know,” Armin pats his head. “I know.”

-

Jean actually ends up spending a lot of time in his, Armin and Mikasa’s apartment, chopping whatever Mikasa tells him to chop as she and Eren make dinner, telling crazy movie theater stories. Apparently people think they can get away with a lot in the dark.

But even freaks jerking off during _Muppets Most Wanted_ pales in comparison to the fact that Levi apparently goes there all the time. 

Jean leans in, “With another man.”

Eren jolts forward. “No way.”

“I swear--at first I was like, okay, whatever, but they do it every Wednesday night,” Jean says. “And like, he’s this tall, blond, Chris Evans doppelganger.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously! Okay, like, I took a picture, hold on,” Jean wedges his phone out from his pocket.

“You took a picture? You’re so creepy-- _oh my god,”_ Eren grabs the phone. “It’s the shirt.”

Mikasa leans over. “What shirt?”

“The shirt! The one I found in the backroom when me and Jean were painting that one time--holy shit.”

“They might just be friends, or something,” Mikasa pops the tab on her soda, jiggling it loose. “Do they like, hold hands and kiss and stuff?”

“No, but you can tell,” Jean tips his drink towards her. “The air around them--it’s obvious.”

“Please,” Eren snorts, “you couldn’t even tell that I liked you.”

“ _You_ couldn’t even tell that you liked me.”

“Whatever,” Eren throws a napkin at him. “I totally figured it out before you did.”

“Everyone figured it out before the both of you did,” Mikasa pushes Eren’s chair in, forcing him to sit up straight. “Stop making a mess.”

“Sorry Mikasa,” Jean gushes, because Jean is annoying and weird and acts like he likes Mikasa more than he likes Eren most of the time. He turns back to Eren, eyes bright. “So, you like me, huh?”

Eren kicks him under the table. “Shut up.”

“Does that mean we’re--”

“Sorry I’m late!” Armin bursts in through the front door. “I brought you guys beverages! Of the alcoholic variety!”

He hands Eren a case of beer. Eren reaches up to caress the side of Armin’s face. “Thank you, you beautiful angel.”

“Yes,” Mikasa caresses the other side. “A deity amongst men.”

Jean’s eye twitches. “Anyone ever tell you guys you’re like, mad weird?”

“Yes. All the time,” Eren answers. He pinches Armin’s cheek, grinning at Jean. “Jealous?”

Jean rolls his eyes and steals one of the bottles from the case.

-

“So things are going well?” Mikasa asks later that night, feet propped up in Eren’s lap on the sofa. Jean’s gone home, but he left his jacket on the back of a kitchen chair. He does that a lot, like he still needs an excuse to ask to come over.

“Yeah,” Eren is surprised by his own honestly. “I really--yeah. I like him.”

Her eyes narrow. “Have you told him that?”

Eren feels his face prickle with heat. “Mikasa.”

“Listen,” she kicks at his shoulder with her foot. “You two spend a lot of time talking around each other--I just wonder if anything actually gets said.”

“He knows,” Eren says, and when Mikasa continues to stare him down, he repeats it, “He knows. He has to. We’re, y’know, together.”

“There are lots of different kinds of together,” she goes on. “Jean doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who does well with ambiguity. Neither do you.”

Eren keeps quiet--there’s no point in trying to talk back. Mikasa always has an answer for everything, even when Eren hasn’t asked.

She swings her legs over the side of the couch, standing. “I’m going to bed. G’night.”

He hums noncommittally.

“Also, take the groceries out of the foyer--they don’t belong there.”

Eren sinks down into the couch and watches her go, turning his attention back to the TV. He wonders if Jean’s watching _Full House_ , too.

-

Eren doesn’t, for the record, take Mikasa’s advice. If you could even call it that. 

He doesn’t need to, though, because he has a key to Jean’s place and pants in Jean’s hamper and leftovers in his fridge. He has a place in Jean’s world. Talking about it would just be overkill. Jean gets tongue tied trying to talk about his favorite _Mad Men_ characters ("Peggy's just been through so much!")--there’s no telling how he’ll deal with talking about his feelings for people who aren’t fictional.

And things are going good. They’re still having sex, and they’re still sleeping over at each other’s places, and they’re still good. Eren might not know what he’s doing exactly, but that’s how he’s been his entire life--fly full force into something and making it up as he goes. Sometimes Jean does this thing through, where he’ll tell Eren stories, and it’s really obvious that his nameless “friend” in these stories is Marco. Jean’s eyes get so bright, and he talks so fast he’ll stumble over his words a lot, and his hands’ll flap excitedly in the air all the while Eren’s heart is sinking inside his chest. He wants to bring it up, he tries, but he doesn’t know what he wants exactly--for Jean to stop talking about his ex? For Jean to start talking about his ex? For Jean to stop talking altogether?

It’s usually the third, which he accomplishes through, what are by now, well-practices blowjobs on the sofa. And like that, everything is good again.

-

At least, it’s all good until the week before Easter.

-

“And I wanna tell her there is no such thing as fresh popcorn. It’s literally all made in the basement with a giant machine and then put into huge, six-foot tall bags. We just put it in the display case to--” Jean squints at him over his plate. “Are you even listening to me?”

Eren shovels another forkful of pasta into his mouth, chewing. “No.”

Jean kicks him under the table. “Don’t be a dick, or I’m not gonna cook for you anymore.”

“Oh no, what will I do without Jean’s patented pasta and Ragu?”

“Shut up,” Jean flicks a chunk of tomato at him. “Anyway, you know how that new Captain America movie comes out next week?”

“Mmm,” Eren nods.

“Uh, well, since I work at the theater they do like, these screenings where all the employees go in Sunday at like, 10am and we get to see it before it comes out. I know it’s kinda early or whatever, but we’re allowed to bring one other person, and I--”

“Yo, I can’t,” Eren wipes at his mouth. “My mom’s coming down for the weekend.”

“Oh,” is all Jean says. “Sounds nice.”

“Yeah, she’s alright,” Eren shrugs, standing and grabbing his plate. “You done?”

“Uh,” Jean looks down at his almost empty bowl, twirling his fork aimlessly. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

\--

“I stopped by the supermarket on my way here,” is the first thing his mom says, struggling through the doorway with arms full of bags. “Last time I was here you all had absolutely nothing in the fridge.”

“Because the last time you were here, we’d just moved in,” Eren grumbles, taking the groceries from her and setting them down in the foyer.

“They don’t belong there, Eren,” she huffs, though it doesn’t last long before she’s drawing him into a tight hug that rivals Mikasa’s. “I’ve missed you. You need to call more.”

“Yeah,” Eren says, trying to sound nonchalant, but she smells like the old house and flour and earth and everything Eren doesn’t get in this stupid city, arms winding around her waist.

-

It’s a lot, that weekend. His mom wants to see the sights, and wants Armin and Mikasa to give her a tour of the campus, which Armin does enthusiastically, spouting facts about the history and architecture of the school, when certain buildings were added, the kitchen fires of ‘83, his favorite table at the library. The only thing Mikasa has to add to all of that is, “the roof of the VA building is the hardest to climb to, but it’s easily the quietest.”

Mom pulls her into a hug so tight Eren has to step out of the way before getting bulldozed.

-

Afterwards, Eren feels a little stupid showing her Pulito and watching red faced as she insists on ordering a slice from a giggling Sasha, which she politely takes two bites from before letting it go cold on her paper plate. “I know it’s shitty,” Eren says.

“If that’s how you feel,” Eren’s blood turns cold at the sound of Levi’s voice behind him. “Maybe you should seek other means of employment.”

Eren splutters, and his mom sighs. “There you go again, sticking your foot in your mouth.”

“It’s a miracle they haven’t just merged into one entity,” Levi says, eyes casting an unreadable look over Eren’s mom before going, “Your son works very hard here, when he’s not being a pain in the ass.”

She laughs, and Eren lets his head collide with the table.

\--

They eat at the kitchen table her last night in town, and Eren’s breathing a little easier, because they’ve gotten through the entire weekend without anyone--

“Eren’s dating a boy,” Mikasa says, taking a dainty bite off the tip of her fork.

Eren beats his fist against the table. “Traitor!”

“Two whole days I’m here, and this is the first I’m hearing of this?” her eyes tunnel into Eren from across the table. “I want to meet him. Invite him over right now. Text him.”

“Mom,” he whines. “He’s definitely busy--”

“What?” she asks. “Are you embarrassed? Is this boy embarrassing?”

 _“You’re_ the embarrassing one,” he huffs, sliding his phone out, tapping out a text. “Jean doesn’t do well with the stress of choosing between name brand and store brand cereal. The last thing he needs is you questioning all of his life choices.”

She turns to Armin. “Jean?”

“He’s good,” Armin says. “He and Eren fit together really well.”

“Armin means they’re both overly dramatic weirdos,” Mikasa sips at her drink. “He’s not wrong.”

“Why is it every damn time we’re all together you three gang up on me,” Eren slumps in his seat when his phone buzzes on the table, and the flips it over.

_I can’t. I decided to hash things out with Marco. Meeting him in twenty idk how long this is gonna take_

Eren has to reread it at least six times before the words actually start to make sense to him, because they keep catching on Marco. Marco, Marco, marcomarcomarco.

And it ignites a liquid fire inside of him radiating from his chest to every other nerve in his body with pinpointed accuracy that’s actually painful, burning so hot all of that all the moisture in Eren’s mouth evaporates, throat so dry he can’t swallow, eyes refusing to blink.

“Eren?” Mikasa asks, hand at his elbow.

“He can’t come,” Eren jams his phone back into his pocket, hating how thin his voice sounds. “He’s busy.”

His mom lightly makes some kind of comment about not needing to meet someone who can’t take time out for her son, but Eren can’t hear anything over the deafening ring of white noise screeching inside of his head as they finish dinner, as they clean up, as he walks his mom down to her car and kisses her goodbye, watches Armin and Mikasa do the same.

“Call more, okay?” she brushes the hair back from his forehead. “Just because I’m your mom doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me about things.”

Eren feels his jaw tick, and tries to smother it with a smile, even though he can’t bring himself to open his mouth because of what might spill out. Something embarrassing, like asking her to stay and rub his back, tell him he’ll be okay soon until he falls asleep, just like she always used to when he was sick as a kid. Because that’s how he feels. He feels sick as he watches her climb into the truck, engine rumbling to life as she blows him a kiss goodbye.

-

“Eren,” Mikasa says as the taillights of the car turn around the bend.

“I’m fine,” he tells her. He can see she thinks it’s her fault, for bringing it up in the first place, and Eren knows it’s not, even though there’s a small, childish part inside of him that still blames her. It’s ugly and he can’t look her in the eye anymore, turning to head back up to the apartment.

He doesn’t call Jean that week. Jean doesn’t call him either.

-

Eren doesn’t have a Facebook, but Armin does.

And Armin leaves himself logged on Eren’s laptop sometimes.

It turns out Armin and Marco Bodt are actually friends, which is a little weird, but as he scrolls down the page he realizes they only became friends about a month ago. Eren grins into the palm of his hand as he leans forward--Armin’s keeping tabs, the way he does sometimes, knowing where all the pieces on the board are.

Eren spends an hour just clicking through photos. Whole hoards of candid party shots that are flattened with the glare of camera flashes in darkened rooms, full up of kids twisted in exaggerated poses, eyes so glazed and faces flushed, curling into one another like they’re each other’s only lifeline. Marco has his eyes closed in a lot of them, and Eren thinks that has to say something about the guy, even though he’s not sure what.

When he clicks back far enough, he finds the ones with Jean in them. The first one is a sock to the gut, Marco with his arm hooked around Jean’s neck, pulling him in for a smacking kiss to Jean’s cheek. What gets him most is Jean’s face, scrunched up at the nose, smile so wide it stretches his pink cheeks, so unbelievably elated it makes Eren’s stomach flop.

It’s all downhill from there, because in every other photo after that Jean co-stars in, wrapping around Marco with such sweet ease, kisses exchanged and hands gripping onto one another. Jean gets younger, but the way he stares at Marco in pictures never changes, and in between his simmering jealousy are sparks of something that feels too much like affection, looking at teenage Jean still growing into his bones, making stupid faces at the camera with acne scars on his cheeks and patchy facial hair that forces Eren to grin despite himself. He would’ve fucking hated Jean in high school, without a doubt, with those fucking gauges and the constant line of ‘funny’ t-shirts. Would’ve probably fought with him every damn day.

It doesn’t seem like Jean has a facebook either, or at least anymore. There are comments on some of the pictures by a Facebook User 20123 that are smarmy enough to definitely be Jean, but the account has clearly been deactivated.

Eren sits back, rubbing at his eyes. Why the hell is he doing this?

There’s an album titled SENIOR PROM, and Eren clicks on it. It looks like Marco and Jean didn’t go together--they probably couldn’t--Marco is posed with that same dark haired girl who he was in the bar with, someone tagged Mina Carolina. Eren clicks on her profile, but her stuff is private. The only thing Eren can see is her current profile picture, her arms around Marco’s shoulders and their faces pressed together. 

He closes out of the window, and shuts the laptop, suspended in time for a moment before he bows his head and lets it drop against his hands.

-

In the end, he goes to Jean’s apartment because he left his good jacket there and he needs it back. He shoots Jean a text saying he’s swinging by, and Jean sends him a grossly minimal looking ‘k’ that Eren can’t help but think means a whole lot more than it does. He gets Mikasa to drop him off, and stares up at the building with a sinking sensation in his gut that almost makes him sprint after her tail lights.

But he doesn’t.

Jean opens the door, barefoot and worn thin with his hair sticking up and hour, glasses on, white shirt faded and stained. Eren can see, beyond his shoulder, his jacket folded over the counter, and Eren barely bothers with a _hey_ before he shuffles inside and walks over to grab it.

He slides it on just as Jean says, “We need to talk.”

Eren inhales, filling his lungs, holding it, and turns.

“I’ve been--” Jean tries, biting at his lips. “I bought a plane ticket.”

Eren feels it come out of him, of it’s own accord. “Oh.”

“To Indonesia.”

How didn’t Eren see this coming? It’s almost funny, how fucking dumb he’s been. He snorts, licking at his lips. “Of course. The komodo dragons.”

Jean looks up, finally. “I’ve been saving for a while now, and I just--it’s time, y’know?”

“Good,” Eren says. “Good for you.”

And the worst part is that he means it.

“The plan...I was never meant to be here, y’know? It was always to leave.”

Eren keeps his eyes on the door, storming past Jean. “Don’t let me get in your way then.”

“Eren,” Jean grabs his arm. “Please.”

“What?” Eren rounds on him, eyes burning with the threat of tears. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

Jean’s face folds, hand sliding up Eren’s arm to his hand, gripping tight. “I love you.”

Eren doesn’t know what it must feel like to stand in front of a firing squad, but he assumes watching the light go out of Jean’s eyes the longer he keeps quiet has to be pretty damn close.

The only thing he can do is pull his hand back and say, “Have a good trip, Jean.”

He leaves as quietly as possible, gently shutting the door behind him just to make sure nothing else breaks.

-

Trost essentially turns into the ghost town during the summer, kids all back at home or out seeing the world, Eren passing his days quietly behind glass, cleaning tables and kneading dough and counting boxes. 

He doesn’t think about Jean.

-

It’s hard though, when Mikasa and Armin are both beyond overbearing and keep trying to talk to him about it. They watch him with eyes that tunnel through him over their dinner table, mouths twisting into sad lines that make Eren lose his appetite. What’s more is that he’s fine--he’s not bedridden with wallowing, he’s not fucking his way through the town, he hasn’t gotten drunk in weeks. He’s not being even the slightest bit self-destructive, god _damn._

“That’s what worries us,” Armin admits quietly, Mikasa standing with him.

Even Levi seems to fucking pinpoint something, watching Eren scrape burnt sauce and cheese off the bottom of the oven. He says, “Your angst is upsetting the calzones.”

So he can’t catch a break at home, or at work, so Eren ends up taking Mikasa’s car at four in the morning and parks it in the middle of the nearest empty parking lot, chain smoking himself into sweet oblivion. He thinks fuck them. Fuck Mikasa and Armin. Fuck Levi. Fuck Connie and Sasha and Reiner and Bert and Annie and all of them. 

(Everyone except Jean. Jean doesn’t deserve the fuck. _I love you_ \--how fucking dare he fucking just say that when he’s leaving like some kind of fucking goodbye how fucking dare he use that to say goodbye that fucking asshole. Eren hates him. _He hates him_ ).

Because Eren is fine. He’s fine, and the only thing is that he’s got this weird allergy thing where sometimes his eyes leak when he listens to the ‘80s station or when _Full House_ reruns come on, but he’s fine.

-

Two months go by.

-

Sasha and Connie’s wedding is about as beautiful as a backyard barbeque wedding can be. 

Eren doesn’t want to go. He wakes up that morning already exhausted, refuses to move for two hours after he opens his eyes, just staring at the ceiling and watches the shadows grow longer, then rolls into the bathroom to scrub some life into his face. He doesn’t want to go, but he will. Mostly for Connie and Sasha, and partly because if he doesn’t it would feel like admitting something’s wrong. 

So he puts on his nicest jeans and button down, buys a salad spinner, and goes. The five minute ceremony is followed by an all-night rager, complete with copious amounts of alcohol, food, and dancing that even though it’s all right in front of Eren, feels like there’s a hazy film between him and everyone else, muting every sound and sight and feeling, and _fuck,_ Eren wonders if it’ll ever stop.

“Can you tell Sasha’s family did all the cooking?” Mikasa saddles up to him, eyeing the gigantic pig slow roasting over the firepit not far from the buffet table stacked high with hamburgers, hotdogs, ribs. She casts her gaze over the rest of the backyard. “Still, this is nice.”

Eren nods, letting the ice clink around in his cup. Whiskey is really the only person he wants to be listening to right now, but he obliges Mikasa and Armin as much as he can. He’s not an idiot--he can see they’re practically stuck to him, seeing to him, making sure tonight’s not the night where he loses it. He’s kind of insulted that they think he will. He’s not that selfish. He’s not gonna take this beautiful night that belongs to some of his best friends and make it about his own bullshit problems by breaking down, or whatever it is they think he’s on the verge of.

The backyard is littered with people, all with bright faces illuminated by string lights, red cups in hand as the music loses out to the roar of their laughter. Sasha and Connie twirl around on the dance floor--literally, they keep trying to see if they can spin the other around fast enough to lift them off of their feet, laughing uncontrollably as ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ plays on in the background.

“They’re so happy,” Armin says, eyes big. 

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, watching them. Sasha had opted out of a bridal gown in favor of a white sundress, Connie wearing two pieces of a three piece suit that hang off of him with the tie missing. They look strange together, but a strange that makes sense. It makes Eren’s heart thud inside of his chest. He turns to Armin. “I’m gonna go smoke--run interference for me?”

Armin sighs. “You know if she catches you, you’re gonna be walking home, right?”

Eren’s eyes flicker over to Mikasa, who’s bench pressing children over by the patio as they all gather around her shouting _me next, me next._ “I think it’ll be fine.”

\--

He makes his way over to the table at the far end of the backyard, under the big maple near the chuppa Connie and Sasha said their vows under. He slides the pack and lighter out from his back pocket.

It’s Jean’s lighter. Eren found it on his bedroom floor--it must’ve fallen out one of the nights Jean stayed over. A heavy Zippo with delicate engravings on the front and back, and along the side are the words, _what matters most is how you walk through the fire_ because Jean is a pretentious piece of shit who fucking would get his lighter engraved with a Bukowski quote.

Eren grips it tighter, then flips the top open and lights his cigarette, inhaling slowly, purposefully, and exhaling only when he has to.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind him, “Wanna dance?”

Eren’s throat closes up immediately, and he’s mad. He’s pissed. But he’s still smiling, so he can’t turn around and let Jean see. He takes another long drag. “I’ve seen you dance--no thanks.”

“That was the one time, and I was drunk,” Jean slides into the seat next to him. “Now I’m disappointingly, terrifyingly sober.”

“Fair warning,” Eren shoots back the rest of his drink. “I’m not.”

Jean plucks the cigarette from Eren’s hand, putting it to his own mouth. “Thought you quit.”

Eren watches him, stupidly captivated, snatching it back. “90% quit.”

“But you still rage-smoke,” Jean eyes him back. “What’s got you so pissed?”

Jean’s knee is pressing against Eren’s under the table. It’s warm. Too warm, and Eren can’t take the burning in his chest anymore, snubbing the butt out on the table.

He ignores the question and instead asks, “How was your trip?”

“Good,” is all Jean says. Eren feels his jaw tick.

“What about the dragons?”

“They were good, too,” Jean says. “They reminded me of you, though.”

The tablecloth is suddenly fascinating.

“Everything reminded me of you. Eren,” Jean tilts his head, trying to catch Eren’s eye. “I meant what I said.”

“I never thought you didn’t,” Eren swallows. “But you were leaving, so it didn’t matter.”

Jean frowns. “It mattered because I wanted you to come with me.”

Eren’s head whips up.

“I kept trying to ask, but you--God, you made it impossible, and I said I love you and you didn’t say a fucking thing back and just _left,”_ Jean runs a hand through his hair. “What was I supposed to do? Run after you? Get on my knees and beg you?”

Eren scoffs, cheeks burning. “Don’t try to pin this all on me. If you wanted to ask me something, you could’ve done it.”

“I tried, okay?” Jean says. “And I fucked it up, and I’m sorry, but I was scared. The last time I did this with someone--”

“Why does it always come back to him?” Eren turns sharply. 

Jean snaps, “Why are you so fucking jealous?”

Somewhere behind them, Connie throws the pig’s head at Reiner, who dodges it easily and lets it crash into the buffet table, legs buckling under the impact and sending all the food onto the ground. Sasha yells, _“It’s fine! We’ll hose it off--it’ll be fine!”_

“I’m sorry,” Eren exhales slowly. “I don’t mean to be. You told me everything and I still--I’m dumb, okay? I can’t help it.”

“I’m aware. Christ, I’m more than aware how ridiculous you can be,” Jean reaches forward, then hesitates. “But I still couldn’t stop thinking about you this whole summer.”

Eren is trying his best to commit Jean’s face to memory right now. He’s tan. He’s been in the sun a lot, but he doesn’t look healthy. He looks like he’s lost a little too much weight, and his eyes are tired, sunken dark like the hollows of his cheeks, his lips chapped. Jean’s lips are never chapped. Eren would know. He looks like shit, but just seeing him there after over two months, after everything, his face is easily the most beautiful thing Eren can remember looking on in a long ass time.

“What, you couldn’t find any hot Indonesian guys?” it sounds like a joke, but they both know it’s not.

“You know I didn’t,” Jean says, and finally, finally puts his hand on Eren’s. “You didn’t hook up with Levi while I was gone, did you?”

Eren makes a horrified face. “Dude, don’t be gro--.”

Jean’s mouth might be chapped but tastes just like Eren remembers, the shape familiar and persistent and there. He kisses just like Eren remembers, too. Sharp and sudden and ruthless, fingers pulling at Eren hair, anchoring them together. (He probably fucks just like he Eren remembers, too, and shit, it’s been so long. It’s been almost three months and it’s taking every ounce of Eren’s admittedly minuscule self-control not to throw him down on the grass and like, ride him).

“Shit, it’s been so long,” Jean murmurs against Eren’s lips, echoing his thoughts. “Shit.”

“Hey,” Eren presses their foreheads together. “Come home with me.”

He can hear Jean inhale sharply. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

He pulls Eren in for another kiss, maybe not as harsh but just as needy, hands tugging at Eren like he’s trying to coax Eren into his lap. Which--such a bad idea, because then that smidge of control will actually fly out of the window, so he pulls back, but not without latching onto Jean’s lower lip and tugging on it with his teeth, hard enough to hurt. 

“You suck,” Jean moans as he sits back, face pink, eyes bright.

“Just appreciate the fact that I’m not the kind of person to say _you wish_ as a response to any sort of sucking comment,” Eren grins.

“Saying how you wouldn’t say the specific thing is essentially like saying the specific thing.”

“Wrong,” Eren laughs, loving how it feels bubbling up from his chest, realizing it’s been so long since he’s felt that. “You’re so wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

Neither of them can stop laughing, even when Jean’s hands curl around his jaw and pull him in for another kiss that winds up mostly being knocking noses and clicking teeth, making them laugh harder. Eren winds his arms over Jean’s shoulders, anchoring them when a familiar synthetic beat starts blaring, “Rhythm of the Night” blaring out over the party.

Jean pulls back and slams him with a look. “Did you seriously--”

Eren hold up his hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with it.”

Jean shakes his head. Looking up, eyes gleaming, grinning like an idiot--Eren’s stupid heart stutters out a beat. He’s so--he’s so--

“C’mon,” Jean tugs on Eren’s hand. “Let’s dance. Our song is on.”

Eren lets himself be pulled to the middle of the dance floor. Lets Jean put a hand at the small of Eren’s back and bring him in close, nose pressed against Eren’s hairline. Lets them sway together. Lets himself wrap his arms around Jean’s shoulders and hold tight.

Lets himself say, “I missed you.”

Lets himself hear, “Me, too.”

And believe it.

-

They wind up back at Jean’s place, the familiar dry burn of drying clothes and fresh linen scented fabric softener wafting up from the laundromat. He’d had moments over the past summer where he’d take towels out of the dryer and feel his throat close up as he pressed them to his face and inhaled deeply. Laundry, popcorn, that sandalwood cologne--these were the things that zapped him right back to being in Jean’s arms, in his bed.

“Can you fucking let us get inside first,” Eren laughs as the door gives way, the two of them stumbling across the threshold, Jean gripping at his hips, mouthing at the back of his neck. 

“God, I want you,” Jean spins Eren around, pushing him up against the wall. He mauls Eren’s mouth with a graceless kiss that he trails down Eren’s throat, sucking and nipping all the way down.

“Yeah?” Eren’s grips at Jean’s hair with a hand and forces his head back. He smirks, licking at the neat line of his teeth. “Come’n get me.”

“Such a dick,” Jean snorts, palming at Eren through his jeans, crashing in for another kiss. Better than Eren remembers, he can feel himself slipping. Jean is everywhere--a smoke surrounding him, filling him, suffocating him the way Eren needs. The way he’s needed for months now.

“Jean,” he pants, gripping at those stupid, broad shoulders for dear life. “Jean, I--”

“Yeah,” Jean sighs, gripping back just as tight at Eren’s hips. “I know.”

-

They stumble through the dark apartment, not bothering with lights, peeling each other out of sweaty clothes and falling back onto Jean’s bare mattress. Eren gets his face pushed down into it as Jean slicks up his fingers--those gloriously long fingers that’ve haunted Eren’s feverish 3am dreams for months now--

“It’s fine, I swear, just--” Eren’s mind is just a steady chant of _fuck me, fuck me, hold me down and fuck the shit out of me._ “Please.”

“I love it when you beg,” Jean’s voice probably wants to sound smug, but it’s too torn up with neediness. He twists his fingers, thick . “Next time I’m gonna spend like, an hour doing this just to drive you crazy.”

“There won’t be a next time if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

Jean pulls his fingers out after one last good press down to make Eren hum and whimper. He hears Jeam fighting with a box. Eren’s cock throbs, twitches at the thought of how he must look, face down and ass in the air, waiting for Jean to pin him down and fuck into him.

His embarrassment his short lived, because Jean’s pressing into him in a slow, hot burn until his hips are flush with the curve of Eren’s ass. His mouth falls open in a silent yell, tiny almost sounds spilling out, hands gripping at the edge of the bed hard enough to tear some threads. Hot. Hotter than Eren could’ve ever imagined, and it burns just enough to sting, but he likes it. Likes that this is real and not another fucking dream to wake him up, hard in his boxers and empty in his chest. Jean’s there, Jean’s with him, Jean’s inside him, fucking him like a champ, _shit._

“Shit,” Jean braces a hand against the wall, over the headboard. “This isn’t gonna last--fuck, you should see yourself.”

“You just love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?” Eren snorts, though it dissolves when Jean reaches around and grips Eren’s dick, pumping. “ _Nng_.”

“Not as much as you do, apparently. You’re fucking dripping everywhere,” he can feel Jean’s smirk against his ear, teeth scraping. “Nothing as addictive as being inside you.”

Eren sighs through his nose, trying his best to compose himself. “Not even when you come on my face?”

Jean’s hips stutter, and Eren feels him pull out, and when he looks over his shoulder, he sees Jean gripping himself at the base of his cock. He laughs. “Did you almost just blow your load?”

Jean grunts, taking hold of Eren’s hips and flipping him onto his back, and lining up to slide back in. “Shut up.”

“You can,” Eren swallows, smile faltering as he stars up at Jean’s face. “I want you to.”

He swings around, head lying between Jean’s knees, reaching over to wrap a hand around Jean’s dick, tugging even though the angle’s weird. He sticks out his tongue, giving the tip the lightest, most barely there lick.

Jean takes hold, pushing Eren’s hand away and pumping hard and fast, mouth opening with a strangled cry as he comes all over Eren’s face, paitning his cheeks, his chin, his lips, his tongue.

The arm braced against the wall is shaking, Jean whispering _fuck, Eren, fuck_ over and over. Eren moans, swallowing what’s in his mouth, watching Jean’s shoulders heave through half-lidded eyes.

A shirt gets thrown in his face. Eren splutters, sitting up, “Dude.”

“You complain when I don’t wipe it off,” Jean says, hands thoroughly wiping every part of Eren’s face. “Hold still.”

“Jean, c’mon,” Eren whines. “I’m so hard, man.”

Eren’s head bangs back against the headboard as Jean hitches his knees up over his shoulders, laughter dissipating as hands pull apart Eren’s ass and leans in, pressing the flat of his tongue against Eren’s hole and laving in a thick, curling lick. He gasps, “Oh shit.”

They’d only done this once before, after Eren had answered with _eat me_ to Jean asking why Eren couldn’t put his fucking towels in the hamper, leading to some overdone baiting and ending with Eren hanging over the side of the couch while Jean did, in fact, eat him out, pinning Eren there and refusing to touch him, Eren only coming from Jean’s tongue and the friction against the arm of the sofa. Eren’d come ridiculously fast, but somehow Jean had been more embarrassed than he was. So Eren didn’t bring it up again.

He’s so over not bringing stuff up.

“You’re a kinky sonuvabitch, aren’t you?” Eren’s legs twitch in the air, toes curling. “But no one else has ever let you ruin them like this, huh?”

Jean licks a long strip, letting his teeth trail light behind his tongue, peering down at Eren through half-lidded eyes as his other hand works fingers back inside of Eren. “No. No one.”

His tongue flickers back down alongside those fingers, and just like that, Eren’s mouth is falling open in a shout and his head spinning hard and fast enough to make him believe the gravity got turned off, coming hard in ropes across his own stomach and chest. 

When he centers himself again, breathing in and out with Jean letting his lower body ease back onto the bed. He blinks, gulping down heavy breaths. “Shit.”

Jean collapses back, sprawling out next to him, arm thrown over Eren’s stomach and fingers drawing aimless patterns through the come there, because he's still a huge freakass weirdo. Eren's throat tightens, eyes burning.

He nudges Jean with his foot. “We’re back together?”

“We were together the first time?”

Eren sits up. “Seriously?”

“We never said!” Jean props himself up on his elbows. “I thought you were like, not into labels or something.”

“I literally told everyone you were my boyfriend,” Eren kicks him again, harder. “What the hell?”

“Everyone except me, apparently,” Jean whips the semen stained shirt at him. “Do you know how much I fucking agonized over that? I was so far gone for you and I couldn’t even get you to say that you wanted to be with me. You didn’t even want me to meet your mom--I figured that was you telling me we weren’t a thing.”

“We were a thing. Of course we were a thing,” Eren whips it back. Jean doesn’t answer, just does that thing where he brings his knees to his chest and sighs. Eren reaches out, threading fingers into that stupid looking hair. “I don’t want you to be afraid to ask me for things--to come on my face or to meet my mom. Like, I’ve never done the relationship thing before. You have to tell me.”

Jean snorts, taking Eren’s hand down to his mouth to kiss the palm, muttering, “So romantic.”

“It’s a yes to both, by the way.”

Jean bites at Eren’s thumb, sharp enough to hurt.

-

They wipe down in the bathroom, cramped together in the tiny space, get distracted by salty skin, kissing and sucking and biting. Eren ducks his head and circles a nipple, taken aback by the full body shudder Jean gives. He smirks up at him. "Sensitive there?"

Jean slaps a hand over each nipple, but he can't cover up the goosebumps all over his arms and chest. "Shut up."

Eren wrestles those hands away. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I didn't know," Jean turns bright, bright red as Eren rubs one with the pad of his thumb, "It's-it's never been a thing."

"Hmmm," Eren hums, pinching lightly. He thinks he could do this for hours. It's a dangerous thought. "S'kinda hot."

"I hate you," Jean says, but he's still blushing, and his eyes are shut, and he's not pulling away. And Eren knows he has him.

-

They finally turn the lights on, and Jean finds clean sheets they wrestle onto the mattress together, doing what Jean won’t admit is cuddling and what Eren belligerently insists is cuddling, their legs tangled under the covers and Jean’s hand aimlessly carding through Eren’s hair as they tread on the edge of sleep.

But there’s still The Thing. And if Eren’s committing himself to the idea that they have to start talking about shit, then he needs to man up and actually start talking about shit. 

“What happened,” Eren asks, “with Marco?”

Jean fidgets, exhaling quietly. “We met up and I just...told him all the shit I couldn’t two years ago. That what he did hurt me, y’know, like--it didn’t just hurt me, it destroyed everything. I sounded so melodramatic but when I finally said it I felt like it finally ended, y’know? I guess that’s just closure, or whatever, but it felt really good.”

Eren is quiet. Then, “What did he say back?”

“He wanted to know if we could ever be friends again. Which is so him.”

Eren lifts his head. “What’d you say?”

“Not now,” Jean shrugs. “And that I didn’t know if there would ever be a time when we could.”

“Hm,” Eren drops his head back against Jean’s shoulder. “‘M sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Jean says. “I didn’t want to make things weird between us, so I didn’t want to talk about him with you. And the only time I did was because I was mad at you for not asking me to meet your mom.”

Eren pinches at the bridge of his nose. “You’re so passive aggressive.”

“You’ve known me for almost two years now and you’re just figuring this out?”

“You can be upfront about it--him. You don’t have to pretend he never existed,” Eren huffs, staring up at the ceiling. Marco’s never seen this ceiling, or been in this bed, or had this moment. “He did. I’ll deal.”

“And you’re…” Jean’s voice is cautious, “Okay with that?”

“Not really. Probably won’t even be,” Eren sighs, turning his head to finally look at Jean. “But it’s worse when it feels like you’re hiding it from me.”

“I--okay,” Jean says. A beat, the sound of a car alarm going off outside, someone shouting. “Are we done being like, all well-adjusted and shit?”

“So, so done. Change the subject, please.”

Jean rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his fist. “Did anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

Eren sits up right. “Levi’s blond guy came into Pulito.”

Jean bolt up immediately. _“No.”_

“I swear,” Eren holds up his hand, “to god. He came in, said 'hello Eren,' and went straight back into Levi’s office. Dude, he’s so weird. Also, I’m uncomfortable with the fact that he knows my name and I’ve literally never met him.”

Jean’s entire face is lit up, and he claps his hands together, rubbing them. “And the plot thickens.”

-

Jean comes over to his place the next day, and is messing around with the TV remote as Eren texts his mom about bringing someone with him the next time he comes home. “Why the hell do you have so many episodes of _Full House_ DVR’d?”

Eren’s cheeks burn, and he snatches the remote and hits the power button before he swings a leg over Jean’s lap. They start kissing, and only stop when Mikasa busts in through the door and starts lobbing tangerines at them with frightening accuracy.

And that's how Armin finds them them minutes later, fruit scattered all over the living room with Jean under the coffee table, Eren using a couch cushion as a shield, Mikasa winding up a grapefruit like an all star pitcher. They all freeze and turn to look at him. 

Armin just stares at the three of them, blinks slowly, then turns on his heel and walks right back out without a word.

-

Jean stares up at the building, biting at his bottom lip. “You really think he’ll take me back?”

“Yo, without a doubt,” Connie thumps him on the shoulder. 

“It’s been so long, though,” Jean sighs. “And you know how he is--what if he doesn’t even listen?”

“Levi always listens,” Eren steps up beside Jean as they stand in front of Pulito. He takes Jean’s hand in his own, squeezing. “He just doesn’t always care. But we’ll make him.”

Jean squeezes back, eyes forward. “Yeah, okay, let’s do this.”

Apparently after two months away, the movie theater couldn’t take Jean back, so he was technically jobless. So Eren’d went, “Levi never hired anyone after you left--he’ll probably take you back.”

They walk up to the front counter together, where Levi is cleaning in between the register keys. Bored eyes flicker up, greeting them silently.

“Levi, this is Jean,” Eren says, holding up their joined hands. “My boyfriend. He--”

“You’re both late,” is all Levi says. “Kirschstein, clipboard’s in the back--I need you to run inventory.”

“I--” Jean looks to Eren, who is honestly just as much at a loss for what to do. He turns back to Levi. “Uh, okay?”

Levi’s eyes flicker between them. “Is there a reason you both look dumber than usual?”

“Nope,” Eren answers, pushing at Jean’s shoulder. “We’re just excited to be here, sir.”

He regards them. “Don’t do anything in front of the calzones that you wouldn’t do in front of your own mothers. They’re temperamental.”

The bell above the door chimes, Mystery Blond Guy strutting in with perfectly quaffed hair and the t-shirt. He greets all of them. “Connie, Eren, Jean--nice to see you all.”

“Hey, Erwin,” Connie waves. Levi and Erwin recede into the office without saying another word, and Jean and Eren simultaneously turn to stare at Connie with huge eyes and open mouths. Connie steps back. “What?”

-

Tuesday night; the graveyard shift. It's almost like nothing's changed, though almost everything has. He leans against the counter and watches Jean stir the tub of ground beef for their weekly taco special.

“Egypt would be cool,” Eren says.

“Egypt would be cool,” Jean says, “but hot. What about Switzerland?”

“That’s literally like, the most expensive place. Ever. I had to do a report on it in fifth grade, so I would know.”

“Well then, we have no choice but to compromise and go to New Zealand.”

Eren makes a face. “How the hell is New Zealand a compromise between Egypt and Switzerland?”

“ _Lord of the Rings,_ ” Jean answers with finality.

“What _ever,_ you friggin’ nerd,” Eren shakes his head. “We’ve got time to decide, anyway.”

“Hm,” Jean hums, letting his forehead drop against Eren’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

The familiar notes of an wellworn song filter through the speakers. ‘Rhythm of the Night’ round one of forty, echoed by Jean’s, _“Are you fucking kidding me?”_

Eren just throws his head back, and Jean kisses the laughter out of his mouth. The song fades out, then starts up again.

 

_end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOAH it's done. thank you all so much for reading, and i hope you liked it! if you didn't like it, you can drop by chillnaxin.tumblr.com to ask what the hell is wrong with me (lots of things. there's a list). catch y'all on the flipflop


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